Summary: In high school, you and Steve Harrington may as well have been different species. But now, after running into him at Family Video, he seems different. Better, nicer, a little more awkward, but you kind of like that…and he kind of likes you, too.
(A/N: I am terribly smitten with Steve Harrington! I have more story ideas so there will likely be a few more oneshots with this loveable idiot coming soon. In the meantime I hope you enjoy my first foray into writing this character! <3)
You’ve been coming to Family Video for years. Practically since it opened. Your dad loves movies, and he imparted that love onto you. And since you could walk and talk and count out the right change, you’ve been in charge of picking out the weekly watch.
Now that you’re older, you pick out one or two for yourself while you’re at it. You enjoy pretty much anything– from teen comedies to psychological dramas to slasher flicks. Maybe you’re easily entertained, but you just love movies. To be completely accurate, you love stories. You love getting lost in other worlds, spending time with characters of all kinds, experiencing things beyond your own life, beyond your own imagination. In a perfect world, you’d live with stories all the time.
It’s part of why you’re not going to college in the fall. All through high school you tried and tried and the work paid off, you got good grades, but it all felt like a rat race with no purpose. The only time you actually felt motivated was in English class, especially with creative writing assignments. So you’re putting college on hold, maybe forever, getting a job in town to save up while you still live with your parents, and writing in your free time. Well, writing and finding other stories wherever you can– at the library, the bookstore, the movie theater, and Family Video.
So you come to Family Video a lot. You walk in, say hello to Keith, the owner, and then browse to your heart’s content. It’s a comforting routine. Familiar, well-loved, expected.
What’s unexpected, however, is finding someone else at the counter when you walk in on an early August afternoon. Unexpected and surprising, making your stomach flip a little bit when you realize just whothe someone else is.
Steve “the Hair” Harrington. King of Hawkins High.
Well, former king, anyway. Since graduating in the spring, neither of your high school reputations seem to matter all that much anymore. Once a brainy nobody, now you’re…well, still brainy, but not so much of a nobody.
Still, you don’t expect Harrington to recognize you. You ran in separate circles, far enough apart they may as well have been separate orbits. Maybe even separate universes. He might have learned your name during his brief stint dating Nancy Wheeler, but he’d have no reason to remember it, or you, for that matter.
You plan to just slip into the stacks, browse a little, and then check out. You turn to do just that when you’re stopped short by the sound of your name.
By the sound of Steve Harrington calling your name.
“Hey,” he says, smiling, “Long time, no see. How’ve you been?”
“Hey,” you nod, wondering if you’ve walked into a parallel dimension, “I’m good, how are you?”
“Can’t complain,” he shrugs, and you notice his face is bruised. It’s fading, but you can still see the yellowish shadow around his eye.
“What happened?” You ask, gesturing to his face, “You okay?”
He lifts his hand to his face, as if he didn’t know about the bruise at all before his expression falls into understanding.
“Oh this old thing?” He laughs, but it sounds a little forced. “Just a misunderstanding with a Russian dentist.”
You hum, studying him for a second. He’s different. It’s not just the bruise– something deeper has changed. He’s less of a high school stereotype, less artificially suave, more awkward, more endearing.
“That was a joke.” He clears his throat, pushing a hand through his absurdly tall hair. “Uh, anyway, can I help you find something?”
You almost say no, Keith always knows to let you look on your own, but you’re intrigued by this new Steve Harrington.
“Not exactly,” you say, “I just came to browse, but maybe you can recommend something?”
“Oh, uh, sure,” he stands a little straighter, “What are you into? Movies, I mean. What kinds of movies do you like?”
“I like everything.”
His voice goes up a little in pitch. “Everything?”
You nod, humming your affirmative. He swallows thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his index finger on the counter, clearly thinking hard.
Then he surprises you further by vaulting over the counter, landing gracefully on the other side.
He tilts his head to the right with a knowing smile. “Come with me.”
You follow, a small smile tugging at your lips as he leads you to the “From Page to Screen” section. He stops, scanning the shelves with his eyes and his index finger, dragging it across the spines of the tapes.
“Gotcha,” he mutters.
He pulls the tape out, almost dropping it but snatching it out of the air with his other hand before it hits the ground. He exhales in sheepish relief and holds it out for you. You bite your lip to keep from showing your amusement as you take it from him.
“A Room with a View.” You meet his curious, expectant gaze, “Interesting. Why this one?”
“It only came out last year so I figured you might not have seen it yet,” he rubs the back of his neck, glancing around instead of meeting your gaze, “And you used to read all the time in school, books like this one, so I figured…and you hate it. You totally hate it. Hang on, I’ll find something else–”
He reaches to take the tape back, but you hold it to your chest and step back, out of his reach.
“No, I love it.” You say, “I mean, I love the book. And you’re right, I haven’t seen the movie yet.”
“It’s good.” He says, “And not just because Helena Bonham-Carter is super hot.”
“You’ve seen it?”
His smile falters for a second and then he laughs again, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.
“I was supposed to write a book report for Mrs. McNulty on it but I never got around to reading it. I saw the title at the Hawk Theater two days before the paper was due and figured it was worth a shot.” He says, “It’s pretty good. You’ll like it.”
“Yeah?” You lift an eyebrow, “Is that a Family Video guarantee?”
His smile brightens and he straightens up, puffing out his chest a little. “Yeah. It is.”
“Alright, then.” you nod, smiling. “I’ll take it.”
“Great. Okay, well–”
“Steve!” A voice shouts, accompanied by a girl with wavy brown hair skidding into the aisle, “You will not believe– oh, hello.”
You recognize her, too. She’s from the year below– one of Nancy’s classmates. You’ve seen her at some of the band parties your friends have taken you to.
“Hey,” You greet her with a smile, “Robin, right?”
“Yeah,” she nods, “And you’re Y/N?”
“That’s me.”
“You guys know each other?” Steve asks, looking between the two of you like you’ve each grown an extra head.
“Not really,” you say, “Mutual friends, but I’ve heard great things about you.”
“Probably lies.” Steve says, and then flinches as Robin socks him in the arm. “Ow!”
“Did this bozo help you find anything yet or has he just been flirting the whole time?”
Steve balks, but doesn’t deny it. You hate to admit it, but a small part of you likes the idea of him flirting with you. Has he been flirting? If he has, it isn’t how you imagined Steve Harrington flirting would be like. You always figured he was all heavy cologne and cheesy pick-up lines, not fumbling jokes and awkward movie recommendations.
“He helped me find tonight’s movie,” you say, holding up the tape as proof.
Steve moves forward, ushering you towards the counter with a hand on your back. The contact is warm and sends a pleasant tingle up your spine.
“I was just about to check her out.” He says.
Robin snorts. “I’m sure you were.”
You hold back laughter as Steve glares at Robin over his shoulder. “Don’t you have inventory to run?”
You like these two– Robin and this new version of Steve. They seem like the kind of people you’d like to be friends with. If you watch A Room with a View tonight and return it tomorrow, maybe you’ll see them again. And maybe Steve will give you another movie recommendation.
~
Steve always gets stuck babysitting. He really shouldn’t have to; “the kids” are hardly kids anymore, they’ll be starting high school in the fall. But they’re still too young to drive (if he wasn’t sure they’d all be menaces behind the wheel he’d advocate for lowering the driving age to fourteen), and Dustin says Mike needs an extra pick-me-up with Eleven and the Byers all the way out in California and Max definitely needs some support from her friends after watching her stepbrother die right in front of her.
Steve never liked Billy very much, but he’s not exactly one to judge flawed family dynamics. So anyway, he agreed to take the kids out to the Bluestone Diner for milkshakes. He regrets it the second they walk inside and he sees the waitress behind the counter.
“Hey, on second thought, why don’t we go to the Hawk? See a movie, get some popcorn.” He says, trying to keep his voice low as he waves the kids back towards the door. “I’d really love some popcorn right now.”
“There’s nothing good playing.” Mike says, looking at him suspiciously.
“Yeah, but bad movies can be fun, right? So bad it’s good. Like Manos: The Hands of Fate.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Dustin peers at him. “You’re acting weird.”
“Nothing, I just think we should–”
“Harrington?”
He freezes, closing his eyes and breathing out a quiet “dammit” before spinning around with what he hopes is a charming smile.
“Hey, Y/N! How are ya?”
She smiles, that soft kind of bemused smile that makes him think she can see right through him but still likes him anyway. The kind of smile that makes him feel like a fumbling idiot as he tries to draw it out again and again. He is an idiot, but he can hide it most of the time. Around her, he just can’t seem to get his feet under him.
It’s probably because she’s so smart. Way smarter than him. Why does he always have to fall for girls smarter than him?
Also because she’s pretty. Really pretty– beautiful, actually. He always thought she was attractive, even back in high school. He’d see her around, sitting with the other bookish kids– his friends called them the owls. He liked her laugh, and he liked that she wore tennis shoes every day, and he liked that she always had a book to read. Not only the ones they had to read for school, but books just for herself. She liked to read for fun. He never understood that. But he liked it anyway.
“I’m good,” she says, and then smiles at the gaggle of gangly nerds surrounding him, “Who are your friends?”
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” he coughs, “Too many to keep track of. Believe me, I know.”
“I’m Dustin.” Dustin says, oh-so helpfully, and then points to each person in turn, “This is Mike, Lucas, and Max.”
“Nice to meet you all, I’m Y/N,” she says, and then gestures towards the wider dining room. “You guys can seat yourselves wherever and I’ll be right with you.”
Steve heads towards a booth, at least then she’ll only come check on them once or twice and he can hide behind the tall leather seat-backs and pretend he doesn’t actually hang out with a bunch of kids in his free time. He gets about three steps before he realizes the others are all taking seats at the counter, right in front of Y/N.
“Perfect,” he mutters, swinging his legs over the last empty stool. “Just perfect.”
“Do you guys want to look at menus or do you know what you want?” She asks, pulling a pad of paper out of her apron.
“Chocolate milkshakes all around, right guys?” Steve looks down the line of teenagers and then back at Y/N, feeling like he needs to explain, “I’m, uh– the kid– his girlfriend, and their other friend and then her brother–” At the mix of glares and confused stares from the kids, he clears his throat and gives up. “Just five milkshakes.”
“And fries.” Dustin adds, and Steve kicks him behind the counter. “Ow! What was that for?”
“What was whatfor, Henderson?” Steve feigns innocence, shooting the younger boy a shut up look, and then turns back to Y/N with a strained smile. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“I started at the beginning of the month,” she explains, getting out five metal cups for the shakes, “Like you and Robin at Family Video.”
“Cool, cool, yeah.” Steve nods, drumming his fingers against the linoleum. “Hey, did you watch Duneyet?”
She smiles again, and nods. “Good, but too much sand.”
“That’s what I said!” Steve grins.
“Are you kidding?” Dustin butts in, and Steve just holds back from kicking him again. “It’s a masterpiece. An adaptation of an all-time science fiction classic.”
“Have you read it?” Y/N asks.
Dustin deflates a little, squirming. “Not all of it.”
“No one has.” She laughs, “It’s impossible to finish. The movie was fun, though.”
“Just a lot of sand,” Dustin finishes, and then holds up his hands in a fair enough gesture.
“Wouldn’t want any of it in your shorts, right?” Steve jokes.
Dustin just stares at him, but Y/N lets out a little chuckle and Steve feels like he could scale a mountain.
“Do you think before you talk?” Dustin asks. “Or do the words just come right out of your mouth?”
“Hey, Y/N?” Steve turns back to the counter, “Make it four milkshakes. And forget the fries.”
“Hey!” Dustin protests, and Y/N laughs again.
Steve knows he’s smiling like an idiot, but then again he is an idiot– an idiot who just made a very smart, very pretty girl laugh, so who cares.
~
You were right about Steve and Robin. They make good friends. As summer turned into fall, the three of you started spending more time together. You’d stop by Family Video even when you didn’t have anything to rent or return, hop up on the counter and hang out. The three of you talk about movies and music and all kinds of nothing and everything. You laugh at how Robin and Steve get under each other’s skin, arguing like children though it’s clear they’re devoted to each other.
At first, you thought they were dating, or at least that Steve had feelings for Robin, but by your third visit Steve went out of his way to assure you they weren’t.
“Platonic with a capital P,” Robin agreed and winked at you, “Harrington’s not my type.”
Steve laughed a little nervously, “Yeah, nope, not at all.”
As far as you can tell, Steve’s type is anything that moves. A part of you admires the egalitarian nature of his attraction, but the other is a little disappointed. You’d sort of hoped…well, you’d hoped his endearingly awkward flirting with you was special.
You know it’s silly, and your high school self would be slapping you across the face to know you have a crush on Steve Harrington. He’s changed, yes, but in all the ways that make him a good friend. He’s kind and a little goofy and cute and he likes movies and asks about the stories you write with such genuine interest your chest goes all squeezy. But he’s still a flirt, and a serial dater– one date and then dumped. Having romantic feelings for him is a surefire way to get yourself hurt.
It’s just that sometimes…sometimes you wonder if he has feelings for you too. You’re all friends, but he tends to go a step or two further than he does for Robin or she does for you. He rushes ahead to get the door for you, he shows up at the Bluestone while Robin’s at school and orders stuff like toast and coffee just so he can hang out at the counter and talk to you while you work your shift, he keeps track of the movies you rent and remembers which ones you like and don’t like so he can come up with better recommendations, and he drives you all over the place.
You’re usually happy to walk, and you tell him as much, but he insists it’s on his way. How the dry cleaner’s on the edge of town could be on the way to anywhere is beyond you, but you’re not one to turn down free transportation and the chance to spend more time with him.
Like tonight, he and Robin invited you to a movie night at Steve’s house. It seems like something they do a lot in the summer, but this is the first time Robin doesn’t have band practice or a shift or too much homework, and it’s the first time you’ve been invited.
Steve offers to drive you again, but you tell him it’s ridiculous for him to leave his house and pick you up only to go back to his house again. Only you spend a little too long trying to pick the best not-too-nice-but-still-cute clothes and leave later than you planned. By the time you get there, Robin and Steve have all the snacks set up and ready to go.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” you say.
“We were getting worried,” Steve laughs, but you don’t think he’s joking, “We were about to send out a search party.”
“Stevewas worried.” Robin corrects, flopping down on the couch and tossing a piece of popcorn in the air to catch it in her mouth, “I know you’re just a slowpoke.”
You scoff out a laugh, shaking your head.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Steve asks.
“What do you have?”
“Uh,” he squints, clearly struggling to remember. “Actually, maybe you should just come look.”
“Okay,” you agree, and follow him through to the kitchen.
He opens the fridge door and gestures to the contents, “Take your pick, m’lady.”
“A coke sounds good,” you say, and he grabs a bottle before you can, spinning away to find a bottle opener.
You look around the large kitchen, much emptier than the one other time you’ve been there. Your friend’s boyfriend dragged her to one of Steve’s famous parties and she’d dragged you along in turn. You knew the house was huge, but it seemed smaller when it was packed to the gills with drunk teenagers.
“I’ve been here before,” you say, “For a party in high school.”
“Yeah,” he says, handing you the opened bottle. “St. Patrick’s Day, 1984.”
The bottle is cold against your fingers, beads of condensation gathering on the outside. “You remember?”
“I get drunk,” he says, smiling ruefully, “But I never black out.”
“No, I meant,” you swallow, feeling silly for even saying it, “I didn’t think you knew who I was. Or cared, I guess.”
“I cared.” The humor falls from his expression, turning thoughtful and serious as he holds your gaze. “I was just too scared to show it.”
Your chest goes squeezy again and you should really write that down to put into a story someday but you can’t bring yourself to pull your gaze away from his. He inhales, as if preparing to say something else.
“Y/N, listen–”
“Hey numbnuts!” Robin shouts from the living room, startling you both from the trance you’d fallen under. “Are we going to watch this movie or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Steve yells back, “We’re coming.”
You sit on the opposite side of the couch from Robin, with Steve between the two of you. Robin chose the movie Labyrinth, one you haven’t seen before, and as much as you want to pay attention to David Bowie and Jennifer Connolly and their muppet co-stars, all you can think about is Steve. Steve’s thigh pressing warm against yours, Steve’s arm bumping into yours every once in a while, Steve’s smile as he turns to you and cracks a joke about “Bowie’s magic balls,” Steve looking at you in the kitchen like you were the only person in the world, Steve about to tell you something, Steve cared about you, Steve cares about you.
In what feels like the blink of an eye and an eternity all at once, the movie is over. You nod and smile and hope you’re convincing enough when you agree with their assessments of the film even though you remember very little.
Steve offers to drive you home again, both you and Robin, and you don’t fight him on it. You sit in the back and Robin sits in the passenger seat. They talk and tease each other while you look out the window into the Hawkins night, trying to talk some sense into yourself. Steve drops Robin off and you send her a smile and a quiet “good night,” a little confused when Steve doesn’t pull back out of the driveway.
“Are you going to come up here?” He asks, looking at you through the rearview mirror, “‘Cause otherwise I’ll feel like I’m running a taxi service.”
“Yeah, of course, sorry.” you say, getting out and moving up front.
“That’s better.” He smiles at you, putting his arm on the back of your seat as he backs out onto the street again.
It’s just a few blocks to your house, and you’re sitting in your own driveway in only a minute or two. Before you can get out, Steve inhales purposefully again, and you freeze.
“That was fun tonight.” He says, running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” you nod, “It was.”
“Would you–” he clears his throat, “Want to hang out again?”
Your stomach swoops with hopeful excitement, but you’re not totally sure what he’s asking. You’re not sure if this is friend Steve or flirt Steve, and you’re not even sure which one you want it to be.
“Like tonight? With you and Robin, or…”
“Yeah, like tonight.” He answers quickly, “With me…and Robin. Yup.”
He turns to look out the windshield, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. You can see him pushing his tongue against his cheek, brows furrowed slightly.
“Well let me know when the next movie night is,” you say, feeling a lump of disappointment forming in your throat, “I’ll be there.”
“Definitely. Will do.” He promises, flashing you a brief smile.
“Okay,” you open the car door slowly, waiting just in case he has anything else to say.
He doesn’t. And you get out of the car.
“Good night, Steve.”
“‘Night, Y/N.”
He waits until you’re safely inside your house, but you don’t turn back to watch him drive away. You just climb the stairs to your bedroom and drop face down onto your bed.
~
“I am an idiot.” Steve groans, dropping his head onto the counter.
“I know. That’s why I call you ‘Idiot,’ you idiot.” Robin says. “What did you do this time?”
“I didn’t do anything!” He groans, “That’s the problem.”
“What are you talking about?” She asks, already sounding fed up with him.
Steve sits up suddenly, needing to get the truth he’s been carrying for weeks off his chest. “I think I’m in love.”
Robin’s eyes widen for a second before they roll, a scoff huffing out of her mouth.
“Come on, Harrington! You think you’re in love every other day!”
“I’m serious, Robin!” He argues, pushing away from the counter, starting to pace in the little area behind the desk, “I mean I always thought she was pretty, but then I actually got to know her, you know? And I realized how amazing she is— I mean, she’s just…she’s smart and funny and actually cool, like calm and collected cool, not like, stupid high school cool. I really really like her, Robin.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Robin holds up her hand, “Are you talking about who I think you’re talking about because if you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about then this is—”
“Y/N! I’m talking about Y/N!” Steve spins around, throwing his hands up. “Who else would I be talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the twenty other girls you’ve flirted with in the last week?”
His chest squeezes with remorse. Those other girls hadn’t meant anything– they were just…affirmations. He feels shitty admitting it even to himself, but sometimes he likes to flirt just to remember he can, that he hasn’t lost his touch. They were just meaningless fun, distractions from the very real, very scary feelings that have been growing inside him. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands in frustration.
“I am an idiot.”
“Okay, okay, so you’re in love with her.” Robin speaks more gently. “That’s great! I always thought she’d be good for you, but you wouldn’t deserve her unless you pulled your gigantic head out of your ass.”
“Gigantic?” Steve touches his forehead, a touch of fear breaking through his distress.
“Don’t worry about it.” Robin waves him off. “Look, what exactly is the problem?”
“I wanted to ask her out. Last night, I was going to tell her how I feel and ask her out, but I just froze. I started thinking about what would happen if she said no and I didn’t want to fuck everything up, so I just…didn’t do it.”
“Why not? It’s pretty obvious she’s into you too, dumbo.”
“Because it could ruin— wait, she is?”
“Yeah, idiot,” Robin rolls her eyes, “You should see her face whenever you flirt with a customer.”
His heart simultaneously soars and sinks. “She…when I…oh no, I am—”
“An idiot. Yes, we’ve established this.” Robin cuts him off, “Seriously, Steve, just ask her out. It’s that simple.”
Her words, matter of fact and just a little bit stern, strike him in the chest. Steve stops, and takes a deep breath. She’s right. It’s not that hard, he should just do it. He’s Steve Harrington for god’s sake.
“Okay,” he nods, shaking out his hands, “Okay, the next time I see her, I’ll ask her out.”
And then, because Steve’s entire life is just one cosmic joke, he hears the bell above the front door jingle and looks up to see Y/N walking into the store.
His entire body goes still, overtaken by a swirl of emotions– surprise, anticipation, a healthy dose of fear, and most of all, warm affection. She’s wearing a wool sweater that’s about two sizes too big, the sleeves hanging past her hands and the hem falling to the middle of her jean-clad thighs. She looks cozy and warm and a little tired but also so incredibly beautiful.
“Hey guys,” she says, giving a little wave as she steps inside.
“Hey Y/N!” Robin greets, her voice far too bright and her smile far too excited, “I’d love to stay and chat but this guy just returned like twenty porno tapes and I gotta go reshelve them so you probably won’t see me for a little while anyways Steve will take care of you I’m sure okay bye!”
Finishing her long, single-breath sentence, Robin practically bolts from the main floor, yet still manages to punch Steve in the arm on her way past.
“Ow!” He rubs the sore spot on his bicep.
“What’s up with her?” Y/N asks, looking towards where Robin has disappeared into the curtained-off “Adult Video” section.
“Dunno. She’s got issues. Lots of ‘em. ” Steve shrugs, feeling oddly out of breath, “Anyway, I kinda need to talk to you about something.”
Y/N meets his gaze, her expression open and sweet with patience and care. “Are you okay?”
“Me? Yeah, yeah, yeah, totally,” he swallows thickly, “I just, uh, had a question to ask you.”
“Okay…” she says, watching him carefully.
Steve takes a deep breath, but he feels impossibly far away from her. The counter separating them is too tall, too wide, it may as well be an ocean. So he plants his hands on the countertop and vaults over the other side, landing on the floor much closer to her.
Her eyes widen a little, her gaze traveling quickly down his body before snapping back up, like she’s impressed with him. The idea puts a little extra spark of confidence in his chest.
“Okay, so,” he takes another breath, “Do you want to go out with me? Just me. Not Robin. Like a date. Not likea date. A date. With dinner and candles and everything. Unless you don’t like dinner, I mean, of course you like dinner, but like if you don’t like restaurants we could go to the movies or–”
“Steve,” she puts a gentle hand on his arm and he snaps his mouth shut, his heart pounding in nervous anticipation. “I’d love to go out with you.”
“Really?” He breathes.
She nods, a sweet, shy smile lifting at her lips. He feels like dancing or jumping up and down or some other equivalent victory gesture. Instead, he moves his arm so he can take her hand in his.
He grins, “How about tonight? Enzo’s. I’ll pick you up at, uh, seven.”
“Yeah, okay.” She agrees, her own smile growing. “That sounds good.”
“Okay,” he echoes, nodding over and over, “Cool.”
They just stand there for a second, staring at each other, smiling and holding hands.
“Are you guys kissing?” Robin’s voice shouts from behind the curtain, “If you’re kissing can you do it where you won’t scare away the customers?”
Y/N breaks eye contact, laughing in embarrassment. Steve doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed right now. He’s too happy. Plus, he takes Robin’s warning as more of a suggestion, tugging on Y/N’s hand and leading her away to the back of the store, back to where they’d first really talked, at the “From Page to Screen” section. He pulls her back behind the tall shelves and then presses his hands against the metal structure on either side of her head, loosely cageing her in– it’s a move he used to pull with girls in the school library, and it works every time.
Except the video shelves aren’t nailed to the floor like the library stacks and this one starts to tip backwards until Steve grabs the edge of the shelf and yanks it back, sending several tapes falling to the floor around their feet.
Y/N bites her lip in the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh. Steve would feel ashamed if she didn’t look so adorable like that– reminding him of why he brought her back here in the first place. He steps closer, and she looks up at him with wide, interested eyes.
“I really want to kiss you.” He says, only vaguely registering how desperate he sounds when he says it out loud.
“I really want to kiss you, too,” she whispers, tilting her face up towards his.
“Cool.” He says, lifting one hand to cradle her cheek while the other finds its place against the scratchy-soft wool of her sweater.
She inhales, probably to say something else, but he just can’t wait anymore. He closes the distance between them and presses his lips to hers. He tries not to come on too strong, keeping things soft and gentle. He intends to pull back after just a second, to make sure it was okay, when her arms wrap around his neck and her hands are buried in his hair and she’s kissing him back and he’s not sure if his head or his heart will explode first.
He slides the hand at her waist around her back and the hand on her cheek to the back of her head, pulling her closer, tighter against his body. She lets out a little puff of air, parting her lips against his and allowing him to deepen the kiss. Without thinking– really, how could anyone expect him to have thoughtsright now? He presses her backwards until she’s against the shelves.
Except, he’s an idiot, and the shelves stillaren’t nailed down, so of course they fall backwards. This time he keeps his hold on her, making sure she doesn’t go down with them, wincing as the metal frame hits the floor with a crash.
“Are you okay?” He asks, pulling back to look for signs of pain, his hands skimming over her face and arms.
“I’m fine,” she says, “Sorry about–”
“No, no, it was my fault,” he insists, letting out a self-deprecating laugh, “I got a little carried away.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Steve looks up and Y/N turns around to see Robin standing on the other end of the aisle, taking in the destruction before leveling a threatening finger at him. “Your mess, you clean it, Idiot!”
“Hey, no problem!” Steve waves, unable to contain his smile. Nothing’s going to bring him down today. Not even this.
Especially after Y/N presses a sweet kiss to his cheek and says: “I’ll help.”
“You two are going to be insufferable.” Robin groans, stalking back towards the checkout counter.
“Don’t mind her,” Steve says, stepping away from Y/N to pick the shelf back up. “She’s actually delighted.”
Y/N looks up from where she’d bent down to start collecting fallen video tapes. “So am I.”
Summary: (Steve Harrington x Reader) In high school, you and Steve Harrington may as well have been different species. But now, after running into him at Family Video, he seems different. Better, nicer, a little more awkward, but you kind of like that…and he kind of likes you, too.
(A/N: I’m putting an excerpt below. I think the whole story will be up on Wednesday, let me know if you want to be tagged!)
You come to Family Video a lot. You walk in, say hello to Keith, the owner, and then browse to your heart’s content. It’s a comforting routine. Familiar, well-loved, expected.
What’s unexpected, however, is finding someone else at the counter when you walk in on an early August afternoon. Unexpected and surprising, making your stomach flip a little bit when you realize just who the someone else is.
Steve “the Hair” Harrington. King of Hawkins High.
Well, former king, anyway. Since graduating in the spring, neither of your high school reputations seem to matter all that much anymore. Once a brainy nobody, now you’re…well, still brainy, but not so much of a nobody.
Still, you don’t expect Harrington to recognize you. You ran in separate circles, far enough apart they may as well have been separate orbits. Maybe even separate universes. He might have learned your name during his brief stint dating Nancy Wheeler, but he’d have no reason to remember it, or you, for that matter.
You plan to just slip into the stacks, browse a little, and then check out. You turn to do just that when you’re stopped short by the sound of your name.
By the sound of Steve Harrington calling your name.
“Hey,” he says, smiling, “Long time, no see. How’ve you been?”
“Hey,” you nod, wondering if you’ve walked into a parallel dimension, “I’m good, how are you?”
“Can’t complain,” he shrugs, and you notice his face is bruised. It’s fading, but you can still see the yellowish shadow around his eye.
“What happened?” You ask, gesturing to his face, “You okay?”
He lifts his hand to his face, as if he didn’t know about the bruise at all before his expression falls into understanding.
“Oh this old thing?” He laughs, but it sounds a little forced. “Just a misunderstanding with a Russian dentist.”
You hum, studying him for a second. He’s different. It’s not just the bruise– something deeper has changed. He’s less of a high school stereotype, less artificially suave, more awkward, more endearing.
“That was a joke.” He clears his throat, pushing a hand through his absurdly tall hair. “Uh, anyway, can I help you find something?”
You almost say no, Keith always knows to let you look on your own, but you’re intrigued by this new Steve Harrington.
“Not exactly,” you say, “I just came to browse, but maybe you can recommend something?”
“Oh, uh, sure,” he stands a little straighter, “What are you into? Movies, I mean. What kinds of movies do you like?”
“I like everything.”
His voice goes up a little in pitch. “Everything?”
You nod, humming your affirmative. He swallows thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“Okay,” he exhales, tapping his index finger on the counter, clearly thinking hard.
Then he surprises you further by vaulting over the counter, landing gracefully on the other side.
He tilts his head to the right with a knowing smile. “Come with me.”
You follow, a small smile tugging at your lips as he leads you to the “From Page to Screen” section. He stops, scanning the shelves with his eyes and his index finger, dragging it across the spines of the tapes.
“Gotcha,” he mutters.
He pulls the tape out, almost dropping it but snatching it out of the air with his other hand before it hits the ground. He exhales in sheepish relief and holds it out for you. You bite your lip to keep from showing your amusement as you take it from him.
“A Room with a View.” You meet his curious, expectant gaze, “Interesting. Why this one?”
“It only came out last year so I figured you might not have seen it yet,” he rubs the back of his neck, glancing around instead of meeting your gaze, “And you used to read all the time in school, books like this one, so I figured…and you hate it. You totally hate it. Hang on, I’ll find something else–”
He reaches to take the tape back, but you hold it to your chest and step back, out of his reach.
“No, I love it.” You say, “I mean, I love the book. And you’re right, I haven’t seen the movie yet.”
“It’s good.” He says, “And not just because Helena Bonham-Carter is super hot.”
“You’ve seen it?”
His smile falters for a second and then he laughs again, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.
“I was supposed to write a book report for Mrs. McNulty on it but I never got around to reading it. I saw the title at the Hawk Theater two days before the paper was due and figured it was worth a shot.” He says, “It’s pretty good. You’ll like it.”
“Yeah?” You lift an eyebrow, “Is that a Family Video guarantee?”
His smile brightens and he straightens up, puffing out his chest a little. “Yeah. It is.”
“Alright, then.” you nod, smiling. “I’ll take it.”
“Great. Okay, well–”
“Steve!” A voice shouts, accompanied by a girl with wavy brown hair skidding into the aisle, “You will not believe– oh, hello.”
You recognize her, too. She’s from the year below– one of Nancy’s classmates. You’ve seen her at some of the band parties your friends have taken you to.
“Hey,” You greet her with a smile, “Robin, right?”
“Yeah,” she nods, “And you’re Y/N?”
“That’s me.”
“You guys know each other?” Steve asks, looking between the two of you like you’ve each grown an extra head.
“Not really,” you say, “Mutual friends, but I’ve heard great things about you.”
“Probably lies.” Steve says, and then flinches as Robin socks him in the arm. “Ow!”
“Did this bozo help you find anything yet or has he just been flirting the whole time?”
Steve balks, but doesn’t deny it. You hate to admit it, but a small part of you likes the idea of him flirting with you. Has he been flirting? If he has, it isn’t how you imagined Steve Harrington flirting would be like. You always figured he was all heavy cologne and cheesy pick-up lines, not fumbling jokes and awkward movie recommendations.
“He helped me find tonight’s movie,” you say, holding up the tape as proof.
Steve moves forward, ushering you towards the counter with a hand on your back. The contact is warm and sends a pleasant tingle up your spine.
“I was just about to check her out.” He says.
Robin snorts. “I’m sure you were.”
You hold back laughter as Steve glares at Robin over his shoulder. “Don’t you have inventory to run?”
You like these two– Robin and this new version of Steve. They seem like the kind of people you’d like to be friends with. If you watch A Room with a View tonight and return it tomorrow, maybe you’ll see them again. And maybe Steve will give you another movie recommendation.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: On your second day back at work, the rest of the team sense that something has changed.
(A/N: I had the time of my life writing this chapter. I think I might dip into the other characters’ POVs more often because I just love them so much! Ah! Also, shout out to my love @crossbowking for helping me figure out a bunch of the story beats in this chapter. Okay! Please enjoy this lovely little interlude.)
Spencer Reid can read about five hundred words per minute, just about double the average reading speed. In the last three minutes alone, while waiting for the elevator, Reid has already read six pages of the book he just borrowed from Agent Willard in the research lab. It’s the latest in an informative series on forensic psychology, and he’s looking forward to the change of pace after working through two eight hundred-page anthologies of old English poetry last week.
The elevator dings, and Reid looks up. As the doors open, surprise flashes through his chest at the sight of Y/N and Hotch. They were facing each other, but now move as if pulled by each of the doors, Hotch stepping to the left and Y/N to the right, moving away from each other and turning to face forward.
It seems neither of them expected to see him, eyes widening as they realize who is standing in front of them.
“Reid!” Y/N exclaims. “Hi!”
Hotch clears his throat as Reid steps into the elevator between them. “What are you doing on the fifth floor?”
“I was borrowing a book from Agent Willard in research,” Reid explains, lifting the book as evidence, “She usually has the most well-informed recommendations for the forensic field. Actually, this book is the fourth in a series from Dr. Singh, the leading expert. I’m not sure how she finds time to write them with her speaking commitments and continuing research. Even typing at an above average speed, producing the length of these volumes at an almost annual rate is pretty impressive.”
“Yeah,” Y/N says, but Reid has the distinct impression she wasn’t really listening.
Usually she’d follow up with a question or a joke about how Dr. Singh might write fast, but he’ll read the books even faster. Instead, the elevator falls silent. It’s a little bit awkward, Reid can tell, but he’s not sure why. He’s been getting better at identifying awkwardness, but not its cause. Often, he’s the cause, but in this case he’s not so sure.
Looking straight ahead, Reid can see Y/N and Hotch making eye contact in the dull reflection of the elevator doors. She’s smiling and the corners of Hotch’s mouth are just slightly turned upwards, and Reid replays what he said about the book, wondering if he accidentally slipped in something funny. That seems to happen quite a lot.
He doesn’t reach an answer before the doors slide open on the eleventh floor. Reid steps out and turns back to wait for the other two. Hotch reaches forward, making sure the doors stay open so Y/N can get out first.
She smiles, another secret sort of meaningful smile, and says: “Thank you.”
Hotch nods, holding her gaze for a second before falling into step next to her. Reid has the sense he’s intruding on something, but he doesn’t know what. Reid remembers Hotch had given her a ride yesterday– maybe they’d been talking in the car.
“Did you two drive in together this morning?” Reid asks as they walk across the hallway and push open the big glass doors to the BAU bullpen.
“Nope.” Y/N answers quickly, “Just ran into each other in the lobby. We got here at the same time.”
“Interesting. You know, the odds of coordinating exactly yet spontaneously like that are actually higher than you think. Coincidence happens surprisingly often. Actually, Kant theorized–”
“Grant!” Y/N exclaims, noticing Agent Anderson standing by her desk and breaking out ahead of the other two to greet him.
“Y/N, hi,” The section coordinator gives a small wave with his free hand– the other is holding a stack of files.
“What brings you down here?” She asks.
Reid and Hotch remain behind her, Reid waiting to finish his interesting Kantian fact when Y/N is done talking, and Hotch…actually, Reid’s not sure why Hotch is still here. Anderson is clearly here to see Y/N, and Hotch would usually head right to his office.
Reid studies Hotch for a second. He looks normal– straight-backed and straight-faced, but he hasn’t looked away from Y/N the whole time she and Anderson have been talking, even though Anderson has spoken several times and the average listener would have moved their attention back and forth. No, Hotch is focused on Y/N, and while his expression appears neutral, Reid’s pretty sure he can see a softness in the unit chief’s gaze– a widening of the pupils indicating affection and possibly attraction.
Reid’s stomach swoops a little at that observation. Is Hotch attracted to Y/N? He’d never considered that before. It would explain some things, certainly. The intensity of Hotch’s reactions to her disappearance and subsequent harm, the way Hotch seems more attached to her than anyone else on the team, and even their apparent closeness in the elevator before he arrived.
“Thanks for checking in, Grant,” Y/N says, and Reid looks away from Hotch as he tunes back into the conversation.
Y/N is holding the files now as Anderson heads back towards the glass doors.
“Doesn’t look too busy today,” Y/N says to Hotch, lifting the stack as if weighing it.
“Not at all,” Hotch agrees, “We should all be done by five.”
“Really?” She wonders, not sounding particularly curious. “That’s nice.”
“Do you have plans?” Reid asks.
The other two turn to look at him, slightly surprised, as if they’d forgotten he was there.
“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Y/N shrugs.
“I might go out to dinner,” Hotch answers cooly, and Y/N turns her head sharply towards him, eyes wide.
“Okay,” Reid looks between them, getting more and more confused by the second. “Well, there’s a marathon of Russian films this week at the Crossroads Cinema downtown. If you guys want to come I could translate for you.”
Y/N seems to relax, turning back to him with an affectionate smile. “Thanks, Reid.”
“Sure,” Reid smiles back, though he has a feeling she’d rather go to dinner with Hotch than see an old Russian movie.
~
Jennifer Jareau has always been good at reading people. Before she became a profiler, even before she joined the FBI, she was good at observing and intuiting. Learning the science of it just made her better.
So she’s known about Hotch’s feelings for Y/N for a while. She first picked up on it at the awards banquet, when he could barely keep his eyes off the administrative liaison. To be fair, Y/N looked absolutely stunningin that dress, but there was a difference between casual appreciation and total rapture. Hotch was leaning much more towards the latter that night. She saw them dancing together in glimpses from where she was dancing with Emily, and the look on his face was more than enough to convince JJ that Hotch was in love. And he’s only been getting less and less subtle since then.
It took Y/N a little longer– she was in another relationship after all, and JJ knows how confusing it can be to find your person while you’re still committed to someone else. But after Jay was out of the picture, JJ started to see stolen glances on both sides. She’d catch Y/N looking up at Hotch’s office or staring at him across the conference table, looking away in embarrassment whenever he turned to meet her gaze. They’re like middle schoolers, crushing and oblivious, and all JJ can do is shake her head and smile.
It felt strange, at first, to think about. It’s like having her older brother fall in love with one of her best friends. She’s protective of both of them, but she sees how Hotch relaxes around Y/N. She sees how Y/N smiles at Hotch. She can feel, when she’s around them, the sense of comfort and stability– of rightwhen they’re with one another. JJ knows they’d be good together.
And they seemed to know it too, at least individually. But now she’s wondering if somethinghas finally happened between them.
Because the air has shifted. When JJ looks up from her desk, she sees Hotch walking down from his office to the kitchen. He looks at Y/N as he passes her desk, and she looks up at him, their eyes locking. A spark of understanding, of meaning, and of longing passes between them.
JJ sits back in her chair, struck by the intensity of their small exchange– the difference from their stolen, fleeting, adolescent glances. Something has changed. Something has happened.
She wonders if the last case finally pushed them in the right direction. Her heart ached for Hotch while Y/N was missing. JJ felt his pain keenly, thinking about Emily’s disappearance and near-death and how it had torn her up inside for those few hours she wasn’t sure if Emily would make it or not. JJ knew then that she would do anythingto keep Emily safe and alive. She also knew then that she couldn’t keep running from her feelings. So JJ went to Paris, and found the second greatest happiness of her life (the first always being Henry).
Maybe the fear of losing Y/N finally convinced Hotch to tell her how he felt. Maybe the brush with death finally convinced Y/N to take the leap. Maybe nothing has happened yet, but they both feel it coming, and they’re not afraid anymore.
Either way, JJ knows they’ll be happy. And that makes her happy. She looks back down at her paperwork, smiling.
~
Penelope Garcia loves nothing more than having her family all together. It’s a little ironic, considering her job requires that her family leave her en masse every few days, but she chooses to savor their return. The separation makes being reunited sweeter.
So she loves walking from her office down the hall to the bullpen. She can push the doors open and see her whole family sitting before her. Rossi and Hotch up in their offices, JJ and Emily at adjacent desks, Morgan leaning over the divider to bother Reid, and Y/N hard at work at her desk.
Except she doesn’t look particularly hard at work today. As Garcia approaches the administrative liaison, Y/N is focused on her phone, smiling happily down at the screen as she types. Garcia has the teasing question on her lips, but before she can ask, Y/N looks up at Hotch’s office.
Garcia follows her gaze, slowing her pace as she sees Hotch through the window, raising his brows at his own phone before looking out at Y/N. Looking back at Y/N, Garcia watches her put her phone back down, a self-satisfied smile on her face as she returns to work. In the window, Hotch watches Y/N a moment longer, a soft look of determination on his face.
Garcia feels, with a mix of guilt and intrigue, like she just intruded on a private moment. But a moment that suggests quite a lot.
What are they texting about? It doesn’t seem like work, especially if whatever Y/N said made Hotch look like he was ready to whisk her off somewhere for them to be alone. Were they…sexting? Garcia’s not sure how she feels about that– a little grossed out and a little curious. Plus, if they were, when did thatstart? Are they just having sex or are they together? He’s pretty clearly in love with her, but does she feel the same way? She clearly likes him, but how seriously?
Garcia badly wants to let out the thousands of questions rising to her mind, but she holds back. She has a tendency to jump to conclusions, and more often than not, it’s gotten her into trouble. Although, she could always hack into their messages and find out whether she’s jumping to conclusions or not– but no, no, no, privacy is important, Penelope, you have to respect your friends’ privacy.
Instead, she reminds herself of what she came for, and refocuses on that.
“Hi my love,” She greets, drawing Y/N’s attention.
“Hey you,” Y/N smiles, and Garcia thinks she looks awfully pretty today– she looks happy. “What’s up?”
“Firstly, darling dear of mine, how are you feeling?” Garcia asks.
“Much better,” Y/N says, and Garcia can tell it’s the truth.
“Excellente.”
“I quite agree.” Y/N grins. “Secondly?”
“Yes,” Garcia lowers her tablet from where it was held against her chest, holding it out to Y/N, “Ready to go digital?”
Y/N’s eyes widen as she takes the tablet. “Already?”
Garcia nods, “It was my little project while we were off last week.”
Y/N frowns, “Garcia, didn’t you rest at all?”
“Youwere supposed to rest last week,” Garcia waves her off. “I always need a project or I lose my marbles. Anyway, starting tomorrow, if you’re ready, all case files will be digital.”
“I’m ready.” Y/N nods, “All this paper was making me too guilty.”
“Don’t I know it.” Garcia agrees. “You’ve boosted our department efficiency. Now, our sustainability can go up too!”
“This is amazing, Garcia,” Y/N says, holding the tablet back out for her, “Thank you.”
“Oh no, pretty lady, that’s for you.” Garcia says. “I’ll have the other ones ready for the team by tomorrow. For now, play around with those virtual sticky tabs and folders.”
Y/N refocuses on the screen, clearly excited to re-apply and even improve her organizational system to the digital format. Garcia turns to walk away, but Y/N reaches up without looking away from the screen to grab her hand. Garcia’s chest warms and she squeezes Y/N’s hand twice before the other woman lets her go.
“Have fun!” Garcia smiles, happy as always to play the technological fairy godmother.
She’s planning to go back to her office, but as she turns towards the doors, Garcia sees JJ waving her over. JJ has that look on her face that means there’s a good piece of gossip going around, so Garcia immediately heads over, her heels tapping against the floor.
~
Emily Prentiss can laugh at anything. It’s her first instinct, a lot of the time, to find the funny. Some have called it a defense mechanism– to laugh at something that should make her cry, to crack a joke when she should get upset. Maybe it is a defense mechanism, but people tend to have those for a reason, Prentiss doesn’t care whereit comes from much at all because her jokes usually amuse JJ, and that makes everything worth it.
But right now, watching Hotch and Y/N pretend they aren’t two seconds away from ripping each other’s clothes off is the funniest thing she’s seen all day. She’s amused by how subtle they thinkthey are, when really everything couldn’t be more obvious.
The stolen looks, the flirty texting (which she wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t clearly looked at each other while doing it), the tension hanging in the air between them like an overloaded laundry line just waiting to snap.
They’d make terrible spies, she thinks, and reminds herself never to recommend them to Interpol. Not that she’d ever want to subject her friends to that life. Going through it herself was more than enough.
Still, in non-life threatening circumstances, she’d pay to see them try to go undercover. Especially, she thinks with a wicked smile, undercover with Y/N posing as Morgan’s romantic partner.
If Hotch’s murder glare from Rudy’s that night is any indication, he’d last about two minutes before blowing a gasket. And if Morgan had to kiss Y/N? Prentiss doesn’t like Morgan’s odds in that situation.
Would she still pay to see it? Absolutely. Would she sell tickets for other people to see it? Oh, hell yeah. Off the BAU alone, she could probably make a good one hundred bucks on that.
Prentiss is fantasizing about all the ways she could potentially make that happen when Y/N gets up from her desk and makes her way to the walkway— and Hotch’s office.
Prentiss leans forward, planting her elbows on her desk and lacing her fingers together, ready to watch whatever is about to happen.
Y/N knocks on Hotch’s open door, and Prentiss hears him say, “Come in, shut the door.”
She can see him at his desk. He doesn’t get up, he doesn’t even look up from his work. His tone is calm, nonchalant even, but the anticipation in Y/N’s face as she turns to close the door gives it all away.
Prentiss doesn’t hear their conversation, but she can see Hotch’s side of it. He looks up, puts down his pen, and folds his hands on top of the paperwork on his desk.
He nods, and says something in return to Y/N, and then goes back to listening. His expression is calm, but he can’t hide the soft reverence of it as he hears her speak, as he watches her.
The sight strikes warmth in Prentiss’s chest. She’s surprised by the tenderness, the care. There’s attraction and desire, sure, but it’s wrapped up in love. He loves her.
It’s sweet, Prentiss thinks with a smile.
Then she sees Y/N’s arm move into sight for a second as she stands up, presumably to leave, and Hotch stands as well this time. He walks slowly, leisurely towards her.
Is he smirking? Prentiss’s eyebrows lift, He’s definitely smirking.
He disappears past the wall blocking her line of sight, and Prentiss leans to the side, craning to see.
She just catches sight of a sliver of his left side— his shoulder, the collar of his dress shirt, the side of his face. And then she sees Y/N’s hand lift, carding through his hair. The side of his face disappears as he leans forward, and Prentiss doesn’t have to look to know what’s going on behind the door.
Prentiss sits back, chuckling to herself. Hotch’s office door opens, and Y/N steps out, eyes glazed and mouth set in the kind of dopey smile she has no control over. Behind her, Hotch holds the door, still smirking.
Prentiss bites her lip to hold back a grin, looking down at her case consultations while Y/N returns to her desk. Prentiss counts to ten and then swivels around in her chair, seeking JJ.
Conveniently, Garcia is already leaning against JJ’s desk, their heads bent and voices hushed. Prentiss leans over, smiling mischievously.
“Did you see what I just saw?”
~
Derek Morgan doesn’t like being out of the loop. It comes from growing up with two sisters— he was always surrounded by some kind of gossip.
Did you know? Did you hear? Did you see? Well, let me tell you…
He’s used to being in the know, and he doesn’t like it when he’s not. So when he sees JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia gathering in a little gossip circle, he can’t stay away. Something’s going on, and he has to know about it.
“What’s going on over here?” He asks, sidling up to the trio and leaning against JJ’s desk.
“I’m taking bets on whether Y/N and Hotch have already slept together, or if they’re about to.” Prentiss says, “You want in?”
Morgan nods, not entirely surprised. Hotch and Y/N have been dancing around each other like satellites in orbit. Morgan knows human chemistry, and watching the two of them, he knows it’s only a matter of time before they collide.
“What’s the pool?” He asks.
“JJ and I have fifty on they’ve done it, but Garcia doesn’t want to bet. ”
“Alright,” Morgan nods, “Alright.”
“What’s your bet, hot stuff?” Garcia asks, nudging him with her hip.
“Hang on a minute babygirl, I need to gather some evidence.”
JJ rolls her eyes, “Okay, Columbo.”
Prentiss snorts in amusement.
“Laugh all you want now,” Morgan says, “I’ll be the one laughing when I win.”
He pushes off the desk and heads over to do some investigation. Morgan walks over to Y/N’s desk first, moving around to the opposite side so he can face her straight-on.
He plants his palms on the desk’s surface and leans down with a smile.
“How are you doing, mama?”
“Good,” she says, glancing up briefly before looking back down at her work. “Did you need something?”
“Just checking in on you, that’s all.”
Apart from his investigation, he does want to know. She looks good today, even better than yesterday. The bruises on her face are almost faded, the bags under her eyes less dark. She looks beautiful as always, but she also looks happy. She seems hopeful, excited even.
“Really?” She looks up again, and he feels like the tables have turned as she surveys him, “Because you’ve got your charming face on.”
“Mama, that’s just my face.”
She rolls her eyes, chuckling. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Not much. A little bird said we were getting out of here by five.”
She nods, “Looks like it.”
“You got plans for the evening?”
Her smile falters a little, and then a careful, teasing expression crosses her face.
“Why?” She asks, “Are you looking for a date?”
She thinks she has the upper hand, but she just built a trap for herself and stepped right into it.
“Maybe I am.” He says, “What do you say? You and me, drinks after work?”
Her eyes go wide and he can tell she’s scrambling for an excuse.
“I’m just playing, mama,” he lets her off the hook, “No need to let me down easy.”
She sighs, a relieved smile on her face. “Thank you. Not that I have anything against you…just—”
“In another life, maybe.” Morgan smiles.
“Yeah.” She agrees, “But I’ll always grab a drink as friends in this one.”
“I’ll hold you to—”
“Morgan.”
The hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck stand up at the stern coldness of his name. He looks up to see Hotch on the walkway above, staring daggers down at him.
That look should scare him, but all it ever does is make him want to push back. When he’s made a risky call, Hotch’s glare makes him want to argue, to justify himself. Now, it makes him want to play with them a little bit more, push at the truth they’re hiding, see if he can get them to reveal themselves.
“Hotch.” Morgan returns, not exactly mocking him, but not exactly not mocking him either.
“My office.” Hotch says, only adding as he turns around and goes back into his office, “Please.”
Morgan looks over at JJ’s desk as he walks up to Hotch’s office. JJ shakes her head and smiles, Garcia looks mildly worried, and Prentiss’s shoulders are shaking with barely contained laughter.
Feeling a little bit like the class clown getting called into the principal’s office, Morgan steps into Hotch’s doorway.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
Hotch’s tone is clipped, “I have an assignment for you.”
“An assignment.”
“Yes.” Hotch holds out a case file, “A consultation, you were specially requested.”
Morgan takes the file, and opens the cover. And then he realizes— he’s being punished.
“Specially requested?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “By…Sheriff Thomas of Waynestown Texas. A man I’ve never met in a town I’ve never been to.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” Hotch says calmly, sitting back down behind his desk. “Since it was a special request, I expect you to make it first priority.”
“Even if it means overtime, I assume?”
Hotch looks at his watch, “You’re a good profiler, Morgan. If you start now, I imagine you’ll be done by six or seven.”
Morgan considers pushing back, but he knows he brought this upon himself. Plus, he’s got all the evidence he needs. He leaves Hotch’s office and plops back down at his desk, frowning.
“Well, what did you find out, Poirot?” Prentiss asks, smiling smugly as she looms over his desk.
“I’ll put a hundred on they haven’t.” He says.
“How do you know?”
Morgan flips open the case file with a little more force than necessary. “‘Cause Hotch clearly needs to get laid.”
~
David Rossi feels like he’s watching a sitcom play out in front of him. “The One Where Everyone’s Pretending.” Hotch and Y/N pretending nothing’s changed, everyone else pretending not to have noticed.
It would be funny, except he’s been watching the episodes leading up to this one, and he knows he doesn’t know enough to sit back and let it play.
He, like the others, can tell something’s changed— he just doesn’t know what. And sure, it’s technically none of his business, but then that’s a load of crap because Aaron’s happiness is his business. What kind of friend would he be if it wasn’t? So he has to know what’s going on between them and whether he needs to push some more, or if his work here is done.
Based on the veritable glow Y/N’s got going on today, he’d like to think his meddling days are over. But Hotch is still wound a little too tight for his tastes, still clearly waiting for something when he should be doingit instead.
And so Rossi has to do something. He has to put himself into this storyline, a cameo of sorts, but still very important to the plot. He contemplates his role in the bullpen kitchenette, stirring a cup of coffee. As he walks back towards his office, he passes a rather large and rather obvious huddle of profilers around Morgan’s desk.
“How can you tell?” Reid asks, sounding slightly uncomfortable.
“Justlookat them,” Morgan says, “It’s like a Victorian novel in here with all that yearning.”
“Yearning is what they were doing before.” JJ says, “Now, they’re trying to hide the fact that they don’t have to anymore.”
“And failing.” Prentiss adds. “I saw them kiss in his office earlier.”
If what Prentiss is saying is true, then Hotch (or Y/N) must have finally taken the leap– only Hotch hasn’t told him. He hasn’t told the rest of the team either, but Rossi isn’t the rest of the team. Rossi frowns, feeling a small prick of hurt in his chest.
“You watched them kiss?” Reid squeaks, his shoulders lifting defensively. “Isn’t that kind of invasive?”
“Sure,” Rossi interrupts, and the others startle at the sound of his voice. “And come on, you’re not being particularly subtle yourselves right now.”
They have the decency to look embarrassed, and even a bit guilty— except for Morgan, who seems to see through Rossi’s disapproving act.
“Come on, Rossi,” Morgan says, “Don’t pretend you don’t want to know either.”
Any answer he might have come up with is cut off by the sound of everyone’s phone chiming with a calendar alert. Y/N has scheduled a unit meeting for ten minutes from now.
“You know,” Rossi says, “I think we might be about to find out.”
For the first time in BAU history (and Rossi would know) the team is all gathered in the conference room for a meeting before its scheduled start time. Y/N and Hotch are the last to arrive, Y/N mid-laugh as Hotch follows, smiling. They walk through the door from the outer hallway, facing the conference table head-on. Her laughter falters and his smile disappears as they see the whole team staring back at them expectantly.
“You’re all on time today.” Y/N says, recovering with a smile. “Well, this shouldn’t take too long.”
Rossi holds back an indignant snort. As if it hasn’t taken long enough already.
“Y/N has an announcement to make.” Hotch says.
She nods, and Rossi sits back, ready to finally hear the good news.
“We’re going digital!”
The room audibly and visibly deflates at her words. Y/N falters slightly, confused and probably a little disappointed that they aren’t more excited, but continues on.
“All our case files will be distributed via tablet,” she says, holding up one of her own, “To cut down on paper waste and streamline the process. Garcia will get your tablets to you tomorrow morning, and we’ll do a trial run tomorrow with your consultations and work out any bugs before the next case comes in.”
Rossi watches as Hotch moves past Y/N to his empty seat while she continues the presentation. As he passes, Hotch brushes a hand across the small of her back. It would be innocuous, just to let her know where he is and keep her from backing into him, except there’s plenty of space and there’s no real reason for him to pass so close except that he wantsto. And then she looks down, clearly fighting a smile, and Rossi just can’t take it anymore.
“Oh for the love of god,” Rossi exclaims, “What exactlyis going on with you two?”
For a second, everything is silent and still. The rest of the team hold their breath. Y/N blinks, opening and closing her mouth in search of an answer. Hotch, on the other hand, turns toward his old friend, his expression simmering into a scowl, his hands at his hips.
“I don’t see how that’s an appropriate question, in fact–”
“No, wait,” Y/N holds up her hand, looking at Hotch with a gentle, pleading expression. “I think we should answer.”
“Yeah,” Prentiss interjects, “I think you should answer.”
JJ jabs her with an elbow, glancing surreptitiously at Hotch, who still looks like he wants to put Rossi’s marine training to the test.
“Aaron?” Y/N says, and Hotch finally stops glaring at Rossi and turns to her.
One look is all it takes for him to relax– his shoulders dropping as he sighs. “Alright.”
“You’re right, something is going on. With us. We don’t, um, it’s new so don’t expect too many answers exactly, but–” Y/N fumbles, and Hotch moves back over to take her hand. She looks at him, and he nods. Y/N takes a deep breath and smiles a bright smile, “We’re together. Our first date is tonight.”
“Ah!” Garcia flaps her hands in excitement, “Yay!”
Prentiss clicks her tongue, and JJ shakes her head, both of them reaching for their wallets as Morgan leans back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head like he’s king of the world. Rossi leans toward them, trying to look betrayed.
“You had a bet going?” He asks, “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Alright!” Y/N says, laughing. “Can we get back to the meeting now?”
“What’s the rush?” Watching as Hotch just shakes his head and doesn’t bother to hide his smile behind a guise of annoyance, Rossi grins. “It’s not like you got a hot date to get to or anything.”
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: You have to face some difficult feelings in the aftermath of your kidnapping…and Hotch is there for you, every step of the way.
(A/N: Hehehehehehehehehehe )
“How are you feeling?”
JJ looks at you with gentle concern, voicing the question on everyone’s mind. The whole team is crammed into your hospital room (which you shouldn’t even have in the first place– you started out in one of the bigger recovery rooms with multiple beds and flimsy curtains, but Hotch flashed his badge once and the next thing you knew you were in a private room for the remainder of your stay).
You pull the multi-colored floral crochet blanket Garcia brought for you further up your lap, folding your hands on top. There’s a ring of bruising around each of your wrists, mottled a yellowish red from where you’d been lashed to the chair. For a second, you can still feel the plastic zip ties cutting into your skin.
You tear your gaze away from your hands, forcing a smile as you say. “Better.”
It’s not a lie. Physically, you’re much better than when you arrived two days ago. You feel stronger, less exhausted, and you’re managing the pain of two broken and three bruised ribs as well as a head injury with carefully timed doses of painkillers from your new best friend, Nurse Carla.
“That’s amazing!” Garcia exclaims.
You nod, “I felt good enough to take a walk by myself around the floor earlier.”
“Hotch let you out of his sight?” Rossi raises a skeptical brow at the unit chief stationed next to your bed.
You answer before Hotch can, considering the glare he levels at the older man doesn’t suggest a friendly response.
“He did. He’s not as draconian as you make him sound.”
Again, it’s not a lie. The team has visited twice all together, once yesterday an hour or two after you woke up for the first time since leaving in the ambulance and now again today to check in on your recovery. Meanwhile, Hotch has barely left your side.
Apparently Rossi forced him to go home for a few hours while you were asleep to see Jack and shower and eat something. But Hotch was there when you woke up, sitting in what looked like the most uncomfortable chair in the world, leaning his cheek against his hand. When he saw you shifting a little and then registered that your eyes were actually open, he was on his feet and next to the bed in an instant. Since then, he’s helped you get in and out of bed (early on your legs were embarrassingly shaky), read to you (because reading strains your eyes and slows down concussion recovery), handed you cups of water and ice chips, fit extra pillows behind your back when you want to sit up, and generally kept you company.
Even when he’s just sitting in that god awful chair, filling out paperwork or nodding off when he thinks you’re asleep (you’re usually just resting your eyes), his presence is an enormous comfort. It’s been that way for a while, but now you value even more how calm and comfortable and safehe makes you feel.
When he’s there, it’s easier to ignore the intrusive thoughts. The sudden flashes of memory and fear– of a bullet whizzing past your head, of fists cracking your bones, of the terror that came with knowingyou were going to die.
But you didn’t.
You have to keep reminding yourself. You didn’t die. You survived. You’re going to be okay. You should be okay.
This isn’t the same as walking into your childhood home to see your father dead on the floor. This isn’t the same as losing your mother to a drunk driver. No one died. Not you, not Jessie, and not even James Hawley. Sure, you got hurt, but your wounds will heal.
You don’t want to carry this the way you carry the deaths of your parents. You can’t carry this, too.
So you simply don’t think about it.
Pulling yourself out of your thoughts, you take a deep breath and manage a smile at your friends.
“My doctor said I can go home tomorrow.” You say, “But I can’t come back to work for at least a week.”
You’re not sure how you feel about that– a week with nothing to do but recover is good for your body but not so much for your mind and all the memories you’d rather not dwell on. But then you don’t have much of a choice between doctor’s orders and Hotch’s protective insistence.
“That’s good.” Garcia nods her approval. “Time to rest and heal.”
“And we’ll figure out some way to manage without you,” Morgan winks.
“I don’t know…” Rossi shrugs, “Maybe it would be best for us all to take the week off. We’ll be lost without Y/N no matter how you shake it.”
Each team member turns to look at Hotch, the same silent question in every expression. From his spot beside your bed, he turns briefly to meet your gaze. After you tilt your head in encouragement, he looks back at the team.
“We’re off the clock until next week.”
This time, mirroring the reactions of your friends, your smile is genuine.
~
She’s lying.
Well, not lying outright, but at least lying by omission. Hotch can tell, everytime someone asks how Y/N is doing, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she answers. And once the attention has moved away, her gaze goes distant and troubled.
She’s had that look since they left the hospital, staring out the passenger side window of his car like a ghost of herself. He doesn’t know what internal conflict is going on behind those kind, beautiful eyes, but he can guess. He imagines it’s not far from the battle of his own emotions after Foyet had left him with nine new scars and a grief like he’d never known.
He’d tried to push it all away at first, to keep the despair and trauma at bay, because it was too much, too painful, too difficult. He wanted to go back to how he was before he knew those feelings, so he pretended everything was okay, even though it wasn’t. He pushed and he pretended and he bottled it all up until he stopped sleeping to avoid the dreams of Haley’s pale face. He might have stopped eating or started drinking, like his dad, if Rossi hadn’t pulled him aside one night and said that the truly brave thing to do is to face it, to feel it, and to live with it. Hotch booked an appointment with Dr. Ballezza the next day and began the slow, but necessary process of healing.
He had dug a hole for himself and he might have stayed there forever if Rossi hadn’t pulled him out. Hotch knows she’s digging a hole for herself now, but he refuses to let her fall, he refuses to let her make the same mistakes he did.
When they get to her apartment building, he has to gently touch her arm to pull her from that distant place, his chest squeezing at the forced smile on her face as she moves to get out of the car. He carries her bag, following silently as she gets in the elevator and pushes the button for the third floor.
The whole way up, Hotch is in full profiler-mode, trying to read her behavior for signs of panic or PTSD. He’s ready to offer his own apartment, or to pay for a hotel, or to take her wherever she’d feel the most safe.
But she seems okay for now. Still quiet and introspective, but her breathing is even and her arms are still at her sides.
The elevator dings, and they step out onto her floor. At her door, Hotch reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key.
“Your landlord changed the locks while you were in the hospital,” He says, handing the key to her. “I picked this up on my way to see you yesterday.”
“Oh.” She says, her voice small. “Thank you.”
Hotch notices her hand shaking slightly as she fits the new key in the lock, opening the door. Brows furrowed, he follows her into the apartment, shutting the door behind himself and watching as she steps slowly deeper into her home.
All evidence of the crime scene is gone, the blood cleaned and belongings returned to their usual places, but he knows it must feel different. As she comes to the end of the front hallway, she turns her head sharply to the side, checking around the corner as if expecting Jessie to jump out and grab her again.
No one is there, and Y/N’s shoulders relax as she exhales. Hotch stands at the end of the hallway, watching as she moves into the rest of the apartment. Golden evening sunshine streams in through the windows, still enough to light the room, but Y/N moves around the living room and switches on every lamp in sight before turning them off again– just to check.
His chest squeezes, but still Hotch waits. She has to feel whatever she’s feeling, and he’ll be there when she needs him.
He waits as she moves into the kitchen and through to her bedroom, turning on and off all the lights as she goes. Eventually, after checking every light switch she comes back into the main living area.
He finally moves from his place in the doorway when she starts trying to move the furniture around. She’s trying to shove one side of the couch across the floor, her shoulder pushed into the frame, when he intervenes.
“Stop,” He says, reaching for her, “Let me.”
She steps back, but doesn’t look at him. She stares at the couch with a strange gleam in her eye, almost like defiance but with more desperation.
“Where do you want it?” He asks.
“Just turned.” She says, her words quick and hurried. “So you can see the windows and the front door.”
He nods, and moves the couch. “How’s that?”
“Better.” She nods once, and then crosses her arms. “But I don’t like the chairs.”
“Alright,” He keeps his tone calm and neutral, though his heart is aching for her, straining for her to stop hiding.
“Can you turn them to face the door?”
He rotates the armchairs and then straightens up, looking at her. She’s standing in front of the couch, arms still crossed, eyes darting between the chairs and the front door.
“There, that way they’ll have more light from the windows behind.” She says, sounding slightly like she can’t catch her breath.
Hotch nods once, slowly, and then watches her carefully as he says: “And you can see anyone who comes in the front door.”
She looks at him then, turning her head sharply, that desperate gleam shining brighter in her eyes.
“It’s not– that’s not why I wanted to move them.” She says, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. “I’ve been meaning to turn them for a while, for the light.”
Hotch doesn’t respond. He just holds her gaze.
“It’s not about that. I’m not– I’m fine. I’m really okay.” She insists, “Honestly, you don’t even have to stay. Thank you for taking me home and helping move this stuff but I’m good now, I promise. You can go if you want.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at her, and waits. She can talk her way around it as long as she wants, but he can see the hurt in her eyes. He can see the pain uncovering itself from where she’d tried to bury it.
“Stop staring at me like I’m a victim from a case you’re trying to figure out!” She exclaims, uncrossing her arms as she stalks closer to him, “I’m fine. Nobody died. I made it out. I’m already healing. The bruises will go away and then it’ll be like it never even happened.”
“It did happen.” He says, quietly, evenly. “It happened.”
She deflates at his words, the anger seeping away from her expression and leaving a fragile vulnerability behind. He waits, just a moment longer, holding her gaze, and she breaks. She inhales a shuddering breath, the tears well up in her eyes, and she falls apart.
But Hotch is ready to pick up the pieces.
He reaches out as she crumples under the weight of it all, catching her and holding her against his chest. He lowers both of them to the floor, pulling her into his lap, her legs draped sideways over his. She presses her face into his left shoulder, wrapping her arms around him and fisting the back of his polo shirt in her hands as sobs wrack her body.
The floor is hard and he’s not sitting in a comfortable position and a big wet spot is forming on his shirt, but there is nowhere in the world he’d rather be in this moment than right here.
He holds her for a long time. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t try to move her, he doesn’t ask her to talk. He just holds her. Through the shuddering gasps and heart-wrenching sobs. Through the waves of memory and pain and relief. Through the fear and sorrow and the feeling of it all being over and yet never truly gone.
He holds her until her sobs settle into hiccups, until her breathing calms to a normal cycle, until she relaxes against him, exhausted but whole again. He rubs one hand slowly up and down her back, smoothing over the soft fabric of her shirt.
“I didn’t want to feel this, too.” She says, her voice so small he almost misses it.
“I know,” He murmurs, stomach twisting at the thought of her bearing this on top of all the loss she’s already borne. “But you can.”
She shifts, pulling back just enough to look at him. With her on this lap like this, their usual height difference is gone, letting him look at her straight-on. The sun has all but disappeared behind the skyline, and the room is lit by the only lamp she’d left on earlier. Even in the dim light, he studies her face. Her eyes are red and puffy, her nose is running, and her face is still slightly wet from her tears, but she’s here, alive, looking at him, and he doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful.
“How do you know?” She asks, her eyes searching his face for an answer.
He lifts one hand, keeping the other wrapped securely around her back, and brushes her hair away from her face.
“Because I know you,” He says, holding her gaze, “I know how strong you are. How kind and smart you are. I know how much you didn’t deserve this, but I also know that you will be okay.”
A few more tears well up in her eyes and slip down her cheeks. He wipes each of them away.
“You don’t have to be okay right now. No one is expecting you to be.” He continues, “But I know you will be.”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. He feels the calm that settles in her as she exhales. When she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, he can see the woman he loves.
~
Your week of recovery crawls along and yet also flies by. The days feel long, but by Monday, it feels like you blinked and then ended up here.
Hotch stayed over at your apartment the first night. He slept on your too-small couch while you tossed and turned in your bed, seeing the barrel of Jessie’s gun in your face every time you drifted off. When you gave up on sleeping and crept into the kitchen, he was up immediately, silent asking if you were alright.
You didn’t see the point in lying anymore– he already knew. He didn’t make you talk about it and the two of you sat on your couch together. He didn’t say anything when you leaned your head on his shoulder, he just shifted so his arm wrapped around your waist.
You don’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up the next morning with a throw blanket draped carefully around your body. Hotch was in the kitchen, making coffee. You could tell he had to leave but didn’t want to, and you made the decision for him. You told him to go see Jack, that you were okay for now and you’d call him if that changed. He still seemed unsure, but you smiled a soft, tired smile and wrapped your arms around him in a grateful hug. He returned the embrace, pressing his nose into your hair. You pulled away, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds without heat rushing to your face, and walked him to the door.
Then you called Reid, thinking about him and Tobias Hankel, and got the name of the Bureau therapist he worked with. You called her next and got an appointment for that afternoon. You texted Hotch to let him know, and he offered to drive you. You agreed.
Hotch went home again, shortly before Morgan and Garcia stopped by in the evening with a big bag of takeout (and hugs). The three of you ate and talked and when you smiled, it wasn’t forced.
After they left, you went to bed. Or at least, you tried to. Again, your sleep was plagued by nightmares, and after waking up in a cold sweat to the imaginary sound of a gunshot for the third time, you didn’t think much before grabbing your phone and calling Hotch.
He picked up right away, and you could tell from his voice that he was already awake when you called. You didn’t bother to apologize for bothering him, you just asked if he would talk to you for a little while. He did, and he didn’t ask why. You talked about seeing Morgan and Garcia, about how Jack is doing, about nothing and everything all at once.
Eventually, the pauses were getting longer and your eyes were getting heavier and as if he could see you, he quietly said goodnight and you said it back before letting your phone slip from your hand as you slipped into a shallow, but calm, sleep.
The rest of the week passed in much the same way– you rested and went to therapy and visited JJ and Emily and let Rossi take you to a fancy coffee shop and Hotch drove you to and from therapy every day. Friday night, you even had dinner at his apartment. Jack gave you a long and gentle (Hotch had probably warned him about your ribs) hug before pulling you away to help him build his new LEGO Death Star. The evening left you feeling warm and cared for and safe. You felt at home with them. It’s part of why, for most of the week, you called Hotch every night. The sound of his voice made you feel secure. It reminded you of his promise– you would be okay.
You were starting to believe it. By Sunday, your bruises were fading to yellow and it didn’t hurt your ribs as much to laugh. The breathing and thought exercises you worked on with your therapist were helping heal your mind and memory. You weren’t back to normal yet, but you were getting better.
And, now, come Monday, you’re hopeful that going back to work will help make things at least feelnormal.
Hotch drives you in in the morning, you pick the music and the two of you talk and by the time you get to work the drive feels too short and it’s almost like nothing changed.
Almost.
Except that Hotch keeps looking at you like you’re a bomb that could explode at any moment. He thinks you don’t notice, but you recognize the careful assessment in his eyes, the silent concern. You know it’s because he cares, and his care means more than you could ever say, but right now it’s kind of freaking you out.
You want things to be as normal as possible, but it doesn’t feel normal with him acting like you might break at any moment. You have nothing to hide from him at this point– he’s seen you at your lowest and then lower, but somehow every time he glances over you feel like you have to prove that you are fine. If you can show him you’re okay, maybe he’ll let things settle back into their old rhythm.
And for most of the day, you actually are okay.
The others greet you with big smiles and hugs, but otherwise go about their usual routines. Morgan delivers a cup of coffee, Reid knocks over his cup of pens, Rossi forgets to shut his office door during the “administrative meeting” and you can see him napping at his desk. You work through your stack of case requests, designating sticky tabs and prioritizing consultations. The process is slower than before, some of the files are harder to read than others, but you work on your breathing and your thought processing and you’re proud of yourself for getting through any of it at all. Soon enough, you’ll be back to normal.
Still, Hotch’s concern is palpable throughout the day. He checks in on you every hour or so, stopping by your desk to ask how you’re doing. You answer honestly each time– good, okay, tired but alright, good, etc., yet he still seems wary. He offers to take you home early if you need to call it a day three times and offers the couch in his office for a rest at least twice. Each time, you smile and decline with a quiet thanks.
When the day ends, though, you know he won’t stay late unless you want to– and even then he’ll probably send you that disapproving scowl until you give in and let him take you home. Plus, you don’t want to overdo it on the first day back, so when the clock strikes five you gather up your things and walk down to the parking lot with Hotch.
Once you get into the car, you realize just how tired you are. It’s a good kind of tired, the kind that comes from putting in your best all day, but it’s a deep tired all the same. You don’t talk much on the ride home, you just put on Abbey Road and look out the window for a while. By the time you get home, you’re a little more restored, but looking forward to sitting on your couch with a book or a show or something for a while.
So when Hotch says, “I’ll walk you up,” you can’t help the small flash of resistance that flares in your chest. But, you remind yourself, he just wants to see you back to your apartment. He just wants to make sure you’re safe. Thatthought overwhelms your resistance with warmth.
“Okay,” You agree.
Upstairs, you unlock your apartment and step inside before turning around in the doorway to say goodbye. Hotch moves past you inside, leaving you standing by the open door as he walks down the front hallway. You watch as he stops in the living room, his gaze sweeping the apartment– checking that no one else is there.
You feel a mix of emotions in that moment– a simultaneous rush of love and frustration at his protectiveness. You know, sure as the setting sun, that if someone were here to hurt you, he would lay his life down to keep you safe. But you also know, deep down, that you can’t keep expecting danger around every corner. You have to move on. Both of you.
You close the front door and follow him into the living room. Taking a deep breath, you look up at him with a genuine smile of gratitude.
“Thanks for getting me home,” You say, “But I’ll drive myself in tomorrow.”
Hotch’s brows furrow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Hotch,” You sigh, “I’m okay.”
“You’ve experienced a traumatic event.” He says, “You’re still healing. You shouldn’t rush things.”
Annoyance flares this time– you’re too tired and it’s been too long of a long day of trying to convince him of the truth to smile and insist.
“I’m not rushing!” You let out an incredulous laugh, “I’ve spent the last week doing anything but rush.”
“Are you still having nightmares?”
You falter. You hadn’t explicitly told him about them, but you shouldn’t be surprised he knows anyway.
“Yes,” You admit, “But I’m working on them. They’re getting better.”
“You’re still recovering.” He argues.
“And that’s a good thing!” You exclaim, “I’m recovering! I’m doing better! All the more reason for things to get back to normal!”
“What if something triggers you?” He steps forward, scowling. “A car backfires on your way to work, it sounds like a gunshot, and you have a panic attack. What happens then?”
“I’d pull over.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too risky.”
“Okay. Fine. You drive me tomorrow.” You cross your arms. “What if a deer runs across the road ahead of us and another car swerves to avoid it but hits another car? We don’t have time to stop and we end up in a five-car pile-up.”
His jaw ticks as Hotch clenches his teeth. Still, you continue.
“There are risks everywhere.” You say, “We can’t control them, but we can’t be afraid of them. Ican’t be afraid of them. I have to move on and live my life, Aaron.”
“And I have to keep you safe.” He insists.
You exhale, exasperated. “Why?”
He shuts his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, they’re shining with vulnerable intensity. Your breath catches in your chest and you feel suddenly like you’re teetering on the edge of somewhere you can’t come back from. Frozen in anticipation, you hold his gaze as he steps closer and closer until he’s right in front of you. The frustration is gone from his face now, replaced by a soft resignation that makes your heart pound.
“Because,” He says, his voice soft and deep, “I can’t lose anyone else I love.”
Your breath escapes in a halting exhale, warmth tingling down the length of your spine. Excitement flutters in your stomach as you struggle to form words, still processing his confession.
You suspected he had feelings for you. Your suspicions were all-but confirmed by his overprotectiveness this week, giving far more care and attention to you than he would have done for another member of the team. You suspected and you wondered, but between holding you sobbing on the floor and driving you to and from therapy and talking you away from nightmares of your own death, it didn’t seem like the right time to ask, “do you like me back?”
You have no doubts about your own feelings, but now, you know they’re reciprocated. He loves you. He loves you. He loves you.He loves you.
~
She hasn’t said anything.
Hotch remains still and stoic on the outside, but on the inside, his heart is pounding and his chest is tight and he’s waiting for her to say something.
She’s looking at him, but her gaze has turned inward. It can’t have been more than a second or two, but it feels like the silence is stretching on and on until she blinks and those beautiful eyes are seeing him again, piercing through his chest to his soul.
“You love me.” She says, softly, quietly, not like a question but more of a confirmation.
He nods, and swallows thickly, feeling a tug of uncertainty in his stomach.
“I meant to ask you on a date.” He says, “Before– first. I didn’t want to tell you this way. I was going to ask you to dinner,” He clears his throat, “The day you went missing. I was planning to ask you when you came into the office.”
“Oh.” She says, and he yearns for more, for a clearer reaction, for some indication of how she feels. “Where would we have gone? For dinner, I mean.”
The uncertainty twists into hope. “There’s this place downtown, La Vie.”
“I’ve walked by there,” She says, a small smile lifting at her lips. “It’s fancy.”
“You deserve fancy.”
Her smile grows. “And then what?”
“We would talk and I’d try to make you laugh and when we were done I would take you home and walk you to your door.”
“And?”
He takes a breath, deciding it’s pointless to start hiding now.
“I’d kiss you.” He says.
There’s a pause as she tilts her head, turning her smile sideways. He can’t pull his gaze away from her lips.
“Okay.” She says.
His chest squeezes, his heart rate speeding up a tick. He flicks his gaze back to her eyes, checking to be sure, and finds nothing but certainty in her gaze. She leans up, just a bit, and it’s like a gravity he’s powerless to resist. In one motion, he leans down, lifts his right hand to cup her cheek, and presses his lips to hers.
The kiss is soft and sweet and he intends to pull away, not to overwhelm her, not to go too far, but then she presses closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. His hand falls from her face to her waist, the other curling around her back to pull her against him.
She parts her lips and he takes the invitation to deepen the kiss, holding her secure with the arm around her waist even as he leans her backwards. She pushes back, kissing him with equal intensity, and he can’t help but smile at how perfect she is.
Feeling his smile, she smiles too, and the kiss breaks. He pulls back enough to look at her, and with his mind and heart full of her, he doesn’t even think before kissing her again.
It’s a short kiss, because she giggles, so he just kisses the corner of her mouth instead. And then her cheek, and then the little space between her hairline and the corner of her left eyebrow, and then her temple, and then the center of her forehead, and then the bridge of her nose, and then her other cheek, and then the hinge of her jaw.
That draws out the smallest, most delightful noise, something between a gasp and the word “oh,” and he immediately kisses that spot again, his chest filling with pride when she does it again.
But then her hands are cupping his face and guiding his lips back to hers. He happily complies, but files that spot on her jaw in the back of his mind for later. He wonders, with a flare of excitement, about all the other hidden places and beautiful sounds he could discover. He’s tempted to start the search now, not to stop until he knows everything, but he knows he has to slow down.
“Wait,” He breathes, breaking the kiss.
She pulls back, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and patience. Her lips are swollen and her eyes are bright and he wants to kiss her so badly his chest aches. But he regains some semblance of self control, settling for resting his forehead against hers instead.
“We were arguing.” He says, despite a large part of him yelling and screaming at him to shut up.
“Were we?” She says, though her smile gives her away.
He smiles too, and steals a quick kiss. “Yes.”
“Right,” She says, and then steals a kiss of her own, “Well, I’m going to tell you what’s going to happen.”
“Alright,” He agrees, knowing he’d do just about anything she asked right now.
“I’m going to drive myself to work tomorrow.”
Maybe not anything. He opens his mouth to argue, but she silences him with another quick kiss.
“Let me finish,” She continues, “I’m going to drive myself to work, but when the day is over, you’re going to take me to dinner. And then you’re going to walk me to my door.”
“And?” He echoes, smirking.
She pulls back and looks him in the eye, confident and gorgeous. “I’ll ask if you want to come in for a drink.”
Warmth travels through his body, and even having her in his arms feels too far away. He takes a breath, knowing that he’ll take whatever she gives him.
“Okay,” He says.
“Yeah?” She asks, searching his eyes for any more disagreement.
But he knows she’s right. Risks are everywhere, and try as he might, he can’t control them, so he shouldn’t let them control him. Instead, he should let her move on– it’s what she needs.
He nods, leaning in to kiss her nose. She closes her eyes for a second, smiling gently. When she opens them again, her gaze is filled with a warm intensity.
“I love you, too, by the way.” She says.
As his chest fills with warmth, Hotch can feel the biggest smile spreading across his face. It must be quite the grin, because she laughs in delight and he’s never loved a sound more. She sighs as she stops laughing, and he presses his forehead to hers again. She closes her eyes and he closes his, and they stay there for a while, wrapped up in each other.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: The clock is ticking…an eye for an eye.
(A/N: Surprise! I didn’t want to keep you all waiting any longer for the conclusion of the kidnapping arc, so here’s an early update! There’s a lot happening in this chapter so I’ll just shut up now and let you read…if you haven’t already skipped over this author’s note ;D)
She looks familiar. The woman— the unsub who took you, you’ve seen her somewhere before.
You try to figure out who she is and how you know her to distract from the pain throbbing in your head and the panic threatening to take over your body.
She paces behind the camera, which has been switched off since she recorded the video, muttering and mumbling to herself. You catch only every few words, “took him, it’s only fair, wait until, hear something soon, send another message,” but it’s not enough to understand more than what she made clear earlier– if she doesn’t get what she wants, she’ll kill you.
She strips off the black hoodie she’d been wearing, revealing a black tank top underneath, and, more noticeably, her incredibly muscular form. Her shoulders are broad and strong, her arms defined by biceps and triceps and veins. No wonder she was able to carry you from your apartment to…wherever you are now.
You look around the space, desperate for some clue, some indication of place, something to ground you. If you can figure out where you are, maybe you can figure out how to escape.
You’re in a basement, you know that. There are stairs across from you. Various tools hang from nails on the wall beneath the stairs, rusty and jagged and you hope they’ll stay exactly where they are.
A folding table is set against the wall to your left. Papers are strewn across it, but even craning your neck, you can’t see all of them. You can see the wall though, and all the pictures tacked onto it— pictures of you. They’re all taken from afar, like paparazzi shots, with part of a car window or a plant in the frame, but never obscuring the main subject. There’s one of you and Garcia, out for coffee at the café in Quantico Station, both laughing at something. There’s one of you and Reid, walking through the Quantico parking lot together, talking. There’s one, taken outside of Rudy’s last week, of you, Morgan, JJ, and Prentiss. Morgan’s arm is draped over your shoulders as the two of you walk in step with the couple, their hands held with fingers intertwined. There are several of you and Hotch. One outside your apartment, of you smiling as you approach his car. One taken moments after the one with Morgan when you’d hung back to say a tipsy “thank you” to the unit chief for driving you all week. One taken from behind, of you and Hotch walking into Quantico, his hand on your back.
There’s one photo you’re not in. It’s Hotch and Rossi, walking somewhere, but you don’t know where. Only a sliver of the building they’re approaching is visible, tall, nondescript cement. All you know is that it isn’t Quantico.
You tear your gaze away from the photos, stomach clenching at the notion of this woman observing so many moments you thought were private, of how much she seems to know about you, and how little you know about her.
There’s a clock on the opposite wall. According to its steadily ticking hands, it’s just past three in the morning. Three hours since she contacted the BAU, and twenty-one hours until the deadline– until she kills you.
~
Hotch looks up from his watch and crosses his arms, his entire body tense. Almost six hours have passed since the video, and they’ve made upsettingly little progress. The team is gathered in the conference room again after chasing dead-end after dead-end. He’s ordered each of them to sleep at different points, but Hotch has remained close to the case board, close to the frozen snapshot of Y/N smiling, as if protecting her image could somehow protect her.
“It’s a trade,” Rossi says from his seat at the table, “Him, whoever he is, for Y/N. Our unsub isn’t sadistic, he’s desperate.”
“Or she.” Reid says, lifting his head from where he’s speed-reading every case file since Y/N arrived. “It’s hard to tell with whispers, but the voice was pitched higher, more likely female.”
“Either way, the unsub thinks we’ve taken someone from them.” JJ says, “‘I get him back,’ as in, they get him back from us.”
“But who?” Garcia asks.
“An unsub from one of our closed cases.” Morgan says, and a beat of silence follows as they each consider the sheer number of people that includes.
“But there’s a time limit.” Prentiss points out, “Thisunsub gave us twenty-four hours. Maybe that’s not just for us. Maybe that’s when whoever they think we’ve taken is going to die. ‘He dies, she dies.’”
An idea sparks in Hotch’s mind, and he uncrosses his arms.
“Garcia,” He says, “Do a search of unsubs in the last ten years, are any up for execution in the next week?”
“Good question…” Garcia’s fingers fly across the keyboard of her laptop. “I’ve got several on death row, but the earliest execution date is a year from now.”
Hotch scowls, his fingers fidgeting at his sides. With every dead-end, all he can see is her wide, terrified eyes. All he can hear is the heart-stopping bang of the gun. All he can feel is the overwhelming helplessness.
“What about the gun?” He asks.
“It’s a Colt 1911,” Morgan says, “But the serial number isn’t visible.”
“Run a search for all purchases,” Hotch says.
Morgan shakes his head, “It’s too wide a net, Hotch.”
“There has to be something.” Hotch says, setting his left hand on his hip and rubbing his forehead with his right. “There has to be something. They want him back, so they have to give us somethingto go on.”
He’s too tired to address the concerned looks exchanged around the table. They should be concerned. The best thing to ever come out of this godforsaken job is in dangerand they have nothingto go on.
“Aha!” Garcia says, eyes locked on her computer screen, “Traffic cameras got our mysterious hooded figure driving out of the city in a car registered to one Felicia Morris.”
Again, a spark of hope, of possibility, ignites in his chest as Garcia reads the information on her laptop.
“Oh.” Her face falls.
“What is it?” He demands.
Garcia looks up, meeting Hotch’s gaze with trepidation. “Felicia Morris reported her car stolen two days ago.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched. The frustration burns within him, making his palms itch with the urge to punch something, clogging his throat with the urge to scream. Either option seems better than just standing here while she’s out there, with god knows what happening to her.
He forces a deep breath, opening his eyes again. “There has to be something. Keep looking.”
~
You’re woken by a loud crash, your head snapping up and your eyes flying open. You don’t remember falling asleep, but a glance at the clock tells you you’ve been out for almost five hours. Turning your head to the other side, you see the unsub bent over the table, the surface concaving downward from where she must have just slammed her fists down. She’s breathing heavily, and even from feet away, you can feel the anger radiating off of her.
She straightens, and you immediately freeze, heart pounding with fear as she turns and looks at you, rage burning in her eyes.
“What’s taking them so long?” She shouts.
You almost hope she’s looking for an answer. At least then she might take off the gag tied around your head, suffocating and wet from your sweat and spit over the last twelve hours.
But she turns, starting to pace again as she yells her frustrations.
“They should know! They talked to him, didn’t they? He said they came and asked him questions about all of it. They should know it’s not his fault.” She cries, “It’s all his daddy’s fault. That lousy son of a bitch is to blame. Not Jimmy. My Jimmy is innocent.”
Then it clicks.
She’s Jessie Hawley, married to James Hawley, the Potomac Maniac. You know her because you’ve seen her picture in the case files you read over and over to prep Hotch and Rossi for their interview last week.
James Hawley is set to be executed tonight at midnight.
He dies, you die.
“It’s not his fault. Having a daddy like that, it ain’t easy, you know.” She continues, “It made Jimmy a little confused. He didn’t remember all the time, that his daddy was gone, that he couldn’t hurt him anymore. He was just trying to protect himself.”
Jessie looks at you again and you nod quickly, knowing it’s best to agree, to validate, not to provoke.
“They should know, but they don’t get it.” She says, her voice frighteningly dark, “They haven’t done anythingyet. Nothing on the news. Nothing from the lawyer. Nothing from the prison.”
Unease swirls in your stomach, apprehension and fear gripping your heart as you wait to see where this is going. Glancing at the clock, you see that there are still a little over twelve hours left. Twelve hours for the BAU to figure this out and find you.
Unless…your heart drops like a stone in a well. Jessie is clearly unraveling, desperate and not fully rational. It’s possible she’s too far in her head to realize this isn’t as obvious as she thinks. It’s possible she’s left the BAU with less than bread crumbs.
It’s possible that no one’s coming to save you.
“I know this isn’t your fault, either.” Jessie’s voice has you snapping back into focus, her tone more melancholic, “But they took him from me. And now they have to know how it feels.”
You will yourself to keep still, forcing your breath to remain even, a steady cycle of in and out instead of giving in to the rising panic in your chest.
“They haven’t done anything yet.” Jessie says, pulling her hoodie back on. “I think they need a reminder of what’s at stake.”
She moves to the video camera and presses a button. You look right at the blinking red button, terrified for what comes next.
~
“Another one!” Garcia squeaks, flapping her hands at her computer, “Another video.”
Hotch is filled with a strange mix of horror and hope, of anticipation and resistance. The rest of the team shuffle around, moving closer to the table and sitting up in their seats. Garcia looks at him, a silent question in her eyes.
“Put it up.” He says, turning to the monitor with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Garcia puts the video up on screen and presses play.
Y/N is tied to the chair, looking mostly the same as before, if a little more exhausted. The sight of her, still alive and relatively unharmed, eases a tiny amount of the tension in Hotch’s body.
“Twelve hours. And nothing.” The unsub says, not whispering this time. The voice is decidedly female. “Do you think this is a game? Are you trying to call my bluff?”
Y/N looks at something past the camera, eyes widening with fear. Hotch clenches his fists, heart pounding.
Then a figure moves into frame, the body clothed in black and facing away from the camera. Y/N leans away from the unsub as she approaches, straining against the zip ties.
“Trust me,” The unsub says, loud enough to be heard with her back turned. “I’m not bluffing.”
She pulls her arm back, hand curled into a fist, and swings. She hits Y/N’s abdomen with enough force to make Y/N curl in on herself, letting out a muffled cry of pain. At the sound, Hotch begins to lose control of his breathing, panic settling in against his chest, pushing his breath faster and faster.
Another punch follows close behind the first, striking the left side of Y/N’s ribs. Then another to her stomach. Another and another and another and another until the unsub straightens, breathing heavily, and moves out of frame, leaving Y/N slumped over and still.
Hotch forces his vision to focus, holding onto his sanity by the tiniest thread as he sees the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Y/N’s shoulders. She’s still breathing. She’s still alive.
Sit up. He pleads silently.
But she’s in pain. So much that she can’t even lift her head from where it hangs above her knees. She might not even be conscious.
If she sits up, he’ll have hope. If she sits up, he can tell himself she’ll be okay. She just has to move, she has to look up.
Sit up, honey, please. Just sit up.
The screen goes black, and Hotch loses it.
His vision narrows, darkness creeping in around the edges as his fingers go numb, tingling continuously despite him clenching and unclenching his fists. He recognizes, dimly, that he’s having a panic attack. He understands, in a distant sort of way, the scientific explanation for the vice-like grip around his ribs, squeezing his breath in and out in shallow, desperate cycles.
“I–” He turns, relying on instinct and muscle memory to guide his way to the door, “Excuse me.”
He doesn’t hear himself speak as he leaves the room. He doesn’t even remember reaching his office, not fully. The minutes pass in flashes, blurry and obscured, feeling like nanoseconds and hours all at once.
He’s conscious of his mind, moving too fast, flipping through sounds and images and sensations– Y/N’s cry of pain, the fear in her eyes, a gunshot echoing through the phone, Haley’s pale lifeless body, Y/N’s slumped form, his deep-set sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, of sheer terror.
Because she’s going to die. He’s going to lose her, too.
And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
“Breathe.” A voice pushes against the spiral of panic. “You have to breathe, Aaron.”
Hotch clenches his fists hard enough he can feel his fingernails biting into the flesh of his palms. He forces a breath in and out.
“That’s it,” Rossi’s voice emerges more clearly, “Keep breathing.”
Hotch pushes another breath in and out. Then another. And another. Slowly but surely, reality settles back in. He’s sitting on the floor of his office behind his desk, the chair pushed carelessly away. His back rests against one leg of his desk, his own legs bent so his knees are pulled to his chest. He stripped off his jacket at some point, though he doesn’t remember where it went. His tie is gone too, probably crumpled somewhere on the floor with the dark material of his suit.
Rossi crouches in front of him, mouth set in a concerned line as he studies his old friend.
“I had a plan,” Hotch says, his voice as hollow as his chest.
“What?”
“I was going to ask her to have dinner with me. Yesterday. The day before…when she was supposed to come in. I was going to tell her that I–” He can’t finish the sentence, his throat closing up around the words.
“I know,” Rossi says. “It’s alright.”
“It’s not.” Hotch whispers. “She’s not–I can’t–”
“You need to sleep.”
“No.” Hotch shakes his head, getting to his feet despite the aching protest of his body. “I need to–”
“Sleep, Aaron.” Rossi says, more firmly. “You’ve been up for…too long. You’re no good to anyone like this, especially her.”
Hotch pauses, feeling the truth of his friend’s words striking painfully in his chest.
“Sleep for now, and we’ll handle things for a while.” Rossi assures him, guiding Hotch to the couch opposite his desk. “I’ll come wake you if something happens.”
“No more than four hours.” Hotch says,
“Sure,” Rossi agrees in a way that doesn’t sound quite believable, but Hotch doesn’t have the energy to push.
He lies down on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, feeling as though he might drown in this hopelessness, almost wishing that he could.
“She’s gonna say yes,” Rossi says before pulling the door shut. “When you ask her to dinner. She’ll say yes.”
Hotch couldn’t answer if he wanted to, his throat is too full of emotion to speak. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and imagines her smiling at him from the passenger seat of his car, her head haloed by the light of the setting sun. He lets that image, soft and warm and happy, pull him into a shallow sleep.
~
“Wake up!”
Your head snaps to the right, your skin stinging sharply as a palm smacks against your cheek. You inhale sharply, blinking back into consciousness.
As the sting of the slap fades, you become aware of how much everything else hurts. Your muscles ache and your limbs feel stiff and heavy. If you breathe too quickly or too deeply, pain shoots through your chest. Your ribs are bruised, if not fully broken…just like the rest of you.
“Look.” Jessie grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet her gaze where she crouches in front of you. “It’s time to start saying goodbyes.”
Your stomach sinks. Goodbyes?
Cutting your gaze to the clock, you see that it’s a little before five. There are still seven hours left. You should still have time.
“I had to sit there and hear my Jimmy say goodbye to me, to know that it was the last time I’d hear him speak to me.” She says, gaze far away for a moment before narrowing with anger. “They should know how it feels.”
She yanks the gag out of your mouth, scraping it down over your chin, letting it fall limp around your neck.
“Tell them who he is.” You say, your voice scratchy from thirst and disuse. “Tell them his name.”
“Theyknowwho he is!” She shouts, flecks of spittle spraying your face. “They just don’t care!”
“Jessie, please, just–”
Her fist flies, slamming into the left side of your face. Your teeth cut into the soft flesh of your cheek, and the metallic taste of blood fills your mouth. Turned away by the force of the blow, you spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor before lifting your head again. Your face throbs and your heart pounds as you look into the unhinged anger behind her eyes.
If she’s certain enough that you need to start your goodbyes, then who’s to say she won’t just kill you early? It’s starting to seem more and more likely, especially if you keep pissing her off. She stands suddenly, looming over you, and it takes all the control you have not to flinch, expecting another assault.
But then she moves away from you, stalking over to turn on the camera.
“Agent Rossi first.” She orders through clenched teeth, pressing record.
Your heartbeat picks up, adrenaline rushing as you look at the clock against the wall. Seven hours left. Just seven hours for your friends to find you. You have a chance now, you realize, to help them. You have an opportunity to save yourself.
You look back at the little red light above the camera lens, and choose your words very carefully.
~
“You’ve stepped into a role in my life that’s been empty for a long time. Thank you for looking out for me. And even if I don’t make it out of here, open that bottle of ‘97 Dom Perignon for me. We were saving it to celebrate my first year with the BAU, but I still want you to celebrate, even if you’re celebrating the past instead of the future.”
Garcia pauses the video, looking across the table at Rossi with a silent question in her eyes.
“We can keep going around on this, but it’s not connecting.” Rossi shakes his head. “We’ve never talked about champagne for the end of her first year. I don’t even own a bottle of ‘97 Dom Perignon. You don’t usually keep it that long anyway. Whiskey, yes, but champagne?”
“She doesn’t seem cognitively affected,” Reid says, “Apart from what she says, she doesn’t seem confused or sluggish or coerced.”
“Look at her eyes,” Prentiss points the tip of her pen towards the paused image of Y/N’s face, “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
“She’s trying to tell us something.” JJ says.
“Play it again.” Hotch says.
Garcia looks at him, concern shining in her eyes. He’s not surprised, he probably looks fairly concerning right now. After Rossi woke him with news of another video, Hotch hadn’t bothered to put his jacket or tie back on. He hadn’t looked in a mirror either, but he doesn’t have to look to know there are dark circles under his eyes and his cowlicks are completely out of control. He just can’t bring himself to care about any of that. Not while Y/N is out there, hurt and running out of time.
He meets Garcia’s gaze, nodding to show his intent. She rewinds and plays the message again.
Even if I don’t make it out of here, open that bottle of ‘97 Dom Perignon for me.
“The year. 1997.” Hotch says, “Pull all death sentencing records from 1997.”
“All of them?” Garcia asks.
“Cross-reference with F.B.I involvement.” Morgan suggests.
“It’s all we have right now,” Hotch says, “But at least it’s a start.”
Garcia’s only able to narrow the list to four-hundred and seventy-three sentences and the team begins to sift through for connections to the BAU or Y/N that they might have overlooked when the next video arrives.
She’s still stuck in that awful chair, bloody and bruised and exhausted, but her eyes hold that purpose Prentiss noticed, a familiar fire that makes Hotch’s chest tighten with love and sorrow all at once.
“Dr. Spencer Reid,” She begins, and Reid visibly stiffens, his expression frozen in worried discomfort, “With four PhDs by age twenty-four, promise that you’ll never stop sharing your knowledge. Your brain is a gift, Reid, but your strength comes from your heart. Promise that you’ll tell everyone the story of how you saved the day, brains over brawn. Keep saving the day, Spence.”
The video ends and the team turns to the young genius, waiting to hear the discrepancy, the clue hidden in the message. Reid stares into the middle distance, his eyes flicking slightly side to side as he shuffles through his thoughts.
He blinks. “Hawley. It’s James Hawley.”
Understanding settles in Hotch’s stomach like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place.
“Who?” Prentiss asks.
“The Potomac Maniac. James Hawley. A prolific serial killer sentenced to death in 1997,” Reid explains, “Last week Hotch and Rossi interviewed him before his execution tonight.”
If Reid gives more information, Hotch doesn’t hear it. He’s already in motion, his mind whirling with what to do next, his heart allowing one tiny bubble of hope.
~
You say one goodbye for every hour that passes. One goodbye for every hour you have left. You watch the clock, waiting and hoping, despite the continuing march of time, that your words are enough, that the team has what they need, that they’ll make it.
With seven hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to Rossi. With six hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to Reid. With five hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to JJ.
“I admire you so much, JJ. Your strength and your kindness. It’s been an honor to take on just an eighth of your work.”
With four hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to Prentiss.
“I knew, even from our brief meeting at CCRS, that you had a good soul. Your humor and intelligence make you magnetic and I am beyond grateful for our friendship.”
With three hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to Morgan.
“You’re the brother I never had, and one of the greatest friends I’ve found.”
With two hours left, you hope and you say goodbye to Garcia.
“My companion, my confidant, and my champion, never lose your light. Every minute in your presence was a gift.”
With one hour left, you begin to lose your hope. The seconds seem to tick faster, the minutes passing in mere blinks. There’s no phone calls from the prison, no sudden pardons announced on the news, and no SWAT teams breaking down the door.
No one’s coming.
You tried. You did what you could. You did all you could. But it wasn’t enough.
In an hour, you’re going to die.
You should feel fear, but you don’t. Instead, what fills your chest is loss. You mourn the loss of time. You mourn the loss of hope, of possibility. You mourn the loss of the rest of your life you’d taken for granted– dreams and plans and things left unsaid.
When Jessie turns the camera on one last time to record your final goodbye, it takes a moment to find your voice among the sorrow. But eventually you do, and you use it to tell the truth.
~
“Another video just came in.”
Hotch tightens his grip on the steering wheel at the gravity of Rossi’s tone. He looks at the clock on the SUV’s dashboard. Eleven o’clock. One hour left, and only one team member left unaddressed– himself.
“Play it.” He says.
In his periphery, Hotch sees Rossi shake his head. “Aaron–”
“Play the video, Dave.”
“Just…keep your eyes on the road, alright?” Rossi says, clearly knowing better than to suggest they pull over. They’re still a good fifteen, maybe twenty minutes away from Jessie Hawley’s cabin.
Rossi sighs, resigning himself to whatever he’s about to see, and Hotch holds his breath. Rossi presses play.
There’s a beat of silence, just the rushing of white noise, and then he hears her.
“Hotch,” Her voice isn’t as steady as with the others, wavering under the weight of emotion.“Aaron.”
The sound of his name, his real name, in her voice as she prepares to say goodbye to him while his hands are clamped to the steering wheel, speeding through the dark and racing against the clock, sparks a horrible, gut-wrenching sense of deja vu.
“You have been the most unexpected, wonderful part of this job. When I started, I never thought…I mean I didn’t sign up thinking I would–” Her voice breaks and Hotch feels the hot press of tears gathering behind his eyes. She takes a shuddering breath before continuing, “So much has changed. And so much was because of you. I know you’ll keep the others from blaming themselves, but I need you to know this isn’t your fault, either. You have helped me and cared for me and saved me in so many ways and I want you to remember that. You’ve already saved me, Aaron.”
He exhales shakily, feeling a tear run down his cheek, followed quickly by another. Silence follows, signaling the end of the video, but he yearns for more. Even if it yanks every heartstring from his chest, the sound of her voice allows him to believe, if just for a second, that he’s not too late. Not yet.
“There’s still time.” Rossi says, his voice soft.
Hotch nods, lifting one hand to wipe the wetness from his face.
There’s still time.
~
There are forty-five minutes left when Jessie starts to pace again. She’d calmed down somewhat for a while, weighed down by exhaustion and waning hope. But now she’s agitated, maybe still holding out hope, maybe preparing herself to murder, maybe some combination of the two.
You’re tired. Emotionally and physically, you’re drained almost to the breaking point. You don’t have it in you to hope anymore. Now, it’s time to make peace with the quickly-approaching end.
There are thirty minutes left when she picks up the gun and checks it. She takes out each bullet and then reloads, fiddling with the safety and cocking it, aiming at the wall to practice and prepare.
You don’t want to die, but you’re not afraid. You don’t regret too many things. You’ve lived a good life, all things considered. And all things considered, it will be nice to see your mom again, wherever it is you’ll end up. Your dad, too. Maybe you’ll actually get to know him this time.
There are twenty minutes left when you hear an all-mighty bang from upstairs. Jessie starts, craning her neck to look at the ceiling as footsteps thump above your heads.
They’re here. You realize, your heart beginning to beat faster, a small speck of hope reappearing in your heart.
Jessie springs into action, spinning around and tearing at the zip-ties around your wrists and ankles. She yanks you to your feet and holds your back tight to her chest as the basement door slams open. The barrel of the gun presses between your right ear and the nape of your neck at the base of your skull, cold and close.
Footsteps clatter down the stairs and Hotch comes into view in his bullet-proof vest and his gun pointed at Jessie. Prentiss and Morgan follow close at his heels.
“Let her go, Jessie.” Hotch says, his aim unwavering.
“Where is he?” Jessie shouts. “Where’s Jimmy?”
“He’s still alive.” Hotch says.
“No, no, no!” She cries, pressing the gun harder into your head. You put all your energy and focus into staying still. “That’s not the deal. It’s not midnight yet. He dies, she dies, remember? How do I know he won’t still die if I let her go now?”
“Because the governor has agreed to delay the execution.” Rossi’s voice calls as he comes down the stairs too, cell phone in hand. “Isn’t that right, warden?”
“I have the paperwork right here,” A man’s voice comes through the speaker. “And, I have someone here who’d like to talk to Mrs. Hawley.”
“Jimmy?” She breathes.
“That’s right.” Rossi nods, “Just put the gun down, and you can talk to him.”
“Jimmy?” She calls out, “Are you there?”
“That’s not the deal.” Hotch says, his voice low. “Put the gun down, then you can talk.”
There’s a moment of quiet as she deliberates. You hold your breath and look at Hotch. His mouth is set in a formidable line, but his eyes, locked onto yours, betray the deep swirl of fear and protectiveness at war within him.
The cold press of the gun shifts, her hand moving away just enough, just a little, and then you see her arm drop entirely, the gun falling to the floor.
“Jimmy?” She repeats, her voice wavering.
A hoarse voice comes through the phone speaker. “I’m here, baby.”
Jessie chokes out a sob, her grip loosening as all her pent-up anger and uncertainty disappears.
Then everything happens in a blur. Morgan, Prentiss, and Hotch rush forward at the same moment. Prentiss goes for the gun, Morgan moves to arrest Jessie, and Hotch beelines for you. As if he knew your legs would give out the second Jessie let go, he catches you before you can fall, wrapping one strong arm around your back to hold you up.
You sag into him, spent and overwhelmed, dropping your head onto his shoulder. You barely register the sounds of Morgan reading Jessie her rights, her sobbing cries to Jimmy over the phone as Rossi follows them up the stairs, or of Hotch calling for a medic.
“I’ve got you,” He says, reaching up to cradle the back of your head, not seeming to care that your hair is stiff with dried blood, “You’re going to be okay.”
“You’re here.” You whisper, finally able to let go of the tension and the fear in the warm security of his presence.
“I’m here,” He murmurs as you press your face into his neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he doesn’t. He stays right by your side as the EMTs come down, supporting you while they do a preliminary assessment. He helps you onto the stretcher they brought and holds your hand as one of them fits an oxygen mask over your face. He has to let go as they carry you up the stairs, but he follows close behind, his eyes never leaving yours.
You can feel the adrenaline of the last day and a half draining from your body, leaving you weak and exhausted. Your eyelids feel heavier with every blink, your perception of the world around you growing dim. After they lift you into the ambulance, Hotch climbs in and sits next to you. You hear the sound of his voice, and the response from one of the EMTs, but none of the words make it through the haze of tiredness.
One of the EMTs hooks you up to an IV, and Hotch takes your hand again. You manage to loll your head to one side to look at him, meeting his gaze. You squeeze his fingers faintly, trying to communicate what you can’t speak.
His brows, which had been furrowed with concern, keen on getting answers from the medics, soften into a vulnerable expression. It could be the dehydration or the pain or the lights in the ambulance, but you could swear you see them well up with tears. He squeezes your hand back, gently pressing your fingers.
You feel the motion of the ambulance starting to drive away, the wailing of its siren muffled from the inside. Your eyes fall closed, and this time you let them stay that way, knowing that when you wake, you’ll be safe.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: Hotch has a plan to ask you out, but before he has the chance, the team realizes something is very, very wrong– you’ve gone missing.
(A/N: Ahh! Our first truly angsty arc begins! What happened to our reader? Where is she? Will the team be able to save her? Read on!)
Hotch has a plan.
Despite the long, exhausting case he’d just closed, he could barely sleep last night. His mind kept churning with thoughts of her.
Eventually, after a few hours of tossing and turning and fitful dreams of her voice, he gave up on sleep. Instead, he rose for the day and began to finalize his plan.
He told the team not to come in before noon, but he’s pushing open the glass door of the BAU by ten. He strides up to his office and unpacks his briefcase like usual, sitting down to work.
He has a plan.
It starts with finishing up the paperwork from yesterday’s case. He wants everything approved and filled out by the time she arrives so all she has to do is send it up to the Section Office for review.
When he’s done, Hotch sets the heavy folder on his desk and checks his watch. Half-past eleven. He glances out his office window at her empty desk.
She’ll be here soon.
She’s always fifteen minutes early for everything— work, meetings, appointments too. She’s like him, in that way.
He smiles a small smile to himself. She’ll be here soon, and when she arrives he’ll ask her to step into his office for a minute.
He’ll shut the door and she’ll make small talk in that sweet way she does, asking how he slept and how Jack is and making him feel known and cared for. He’ll hand over the finished case report, but before she leaves, he’ll ask if she wants to have dinner with him tonight.
He’d pick her up at eight with a bouquet of flowers and they’d go to La Vie downtown. They would wine and dine and talk and he’ll only fall more in love with her. He’d take her home again and walk her to her door. He wouldn’t ask to go inside, but he would kiss her goodnight and hope against hope that she’ll want to go out again to dinner or lunch or the movies or coffee for as long as they both shall live.
Hotch checks his watch again. Eleven forty-four.
His fingers fidget as he counts down the seconds, watching out his office window.
The doors open, but it’s just JJ and Prentiss arriving for the day. Hotch looks back down at his desk, trying to seem busy.
Eleven fifty.
He looks up again. Morgan holds the door open for Garcia, who taps his nose in grateful affection. Morgan keeps the door open for Reid, who jogs in with an out-of-breath smile.
She’s not late, Hotch reminds himself. She’s just not as early as she normally is.
He dismisses the unease creeping through his stomach. He told her not to come in before noon. This doesn’t change the plan.
Twelve o’clock.
He stands, too agitated to sit, and braces an arm against the window frame as he watches the glass doors.
Rossi saunters in, sunglasses still on and a styrofoam coffee cup in hand. Hotch lowers his arm, checking his watch.
Two minutes past the hour.
She’s probably hurrying through the main lobby downstairs, calling for someone to hold the elevator. She’ll probably be here in a minute, apologizing profusely for being late, and he won’t care as long as he gets to see her face and hear her voice and finally, finally do what he’s wanted to do for so long.
At five minutes past, Hotch leaves his office. He paces down to her empty desk and then feels self-conscious and obvious, standing there, so he strides to the kitchenette for a cup of coffee.
By the time he’s made it, walking more slowly back to her desk, it’s a quarter past and still no sign of her.
Hotch is worried now. He wouldn’t be, except…something just doesn’t feel right.
“No Y/N yet?”
Hotch turns at the sound of Morgan’s voice, the other agent setting her usual coffee down on the desk.
“No,” Hotch says, “She’s not usually late.”
“Yeah, but she was up longer than any of us, right? She has to field the cases in the first place before sending the wake-up call.” Morgan says, “She probably just overslept.”
“Probably,” Hotch agrees absently, unconvinced.
“You could call her.” Prentiss suggests from two desks over, eyes full of sympathy, “Just to make sure.”
Hotch nods, taking the suggestion and stepping away to dial her number. The phone rings and rings and rings and then:
“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. I can’t answer the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!”
Hotch waits for the beep.
“Hey, it’s Hotch. Just,” he clears his throat, “Just checking in to make sure you’re alright. Call me back.”
He hangs up, tapping his phone against his opposite palm anxiously. After another minute or two, he tries again.
The phone rings and rings and rings.
“Hi, you’ve reached Y/N. I can’t answer the phone right now—”
He hangs up, jaw clenching in time with his chest.
“Voicemail again?” Prentiss asks, seeming to match Hotch’s concern.
“Let me try,” Morgan says, pulling his phone out and dialing.
Hotch can hear it ring again before the recorded message repeats.
“Hey, mama it’s me.” Morgan says, “I know you’re probably enjoying your beauty sleep but we’re starting to worry about you over here, so please pick up the phone.”
Morgan hangs up, and they wait for a moment, hoping one of their phones will start to ring. But nothing happens.
“I don’t like this,” Prentiss says, “It feels like when—it just doesn’t feel right.”
Prentiss cuts herself off, but Hotch knows what she was going to say. She’s remembering almost four years ago, when he himself didn’t show up for a case because he was lying in the hospital with nine knife wounds in his torso.
“I’m going to her apartment.” Hotch says, “You two are on point while I’m gone.”
He heads for the doors without another word, just barely holding back from running as he strides to the elevator.
Hotch knows the route to her place like the back of his hand, but the trip has never felt this long. He calls her again halfway through the drive, and still nothing.
When he finally pulls into the parking lot at her building, he feels agitation and urgency burning in his legs.
He sees her car parked three spots over, and he isn’t sure if he should feel relieved or more worried. There’s a maintenance truck parked in front of the entrance, and he stops one of the workmen coming out of the building.
“What’s going on?”
“Power’s been out since yesterday,” The man shrugs, “Should be back on in an hour, buddy, no need to stress.”
Hotch doesn’t bother responding, unease knotting in his stomach as he bypasses the workman and goes inside. He scales the stairs two and a time, hurrying down the hallway to Y/N’s door.
He knocks, loud and insistent. “Y/N? It’s Hotch.”
Nothing.
“Y/N? Are you in there? Talk to me, please.”
Still, nothing.
Hotch pulls out his phone, trying her number again. He lowers it from his ear after the first ring, fear creeping in as he hears herphone ringing inside the apartment.
He tries the door, heart sinking to find it unlocked. It swings open, and he walks inside, slow and careful, his training kicking in.
Light streams in from the windows, illuminating the empty living room. His gaze immediately drops to the floor where her bag lies forgotten, phone ringing from inside, next to a trail of blood curving from the living room into the front hallway.
His breath leaves his lungs in a stuttering heave, panic seizing within him. Heart pounding, he relies on instinct, removing his gun from its holster and carefully side-stepping the mess as he searches the rest of the apartment. The kitchen is empty, and he shoves the bedroom door open with his shoulder, gun raised. No one is there. He does the same with the bathroom, but finds it equally empty.
Hurrying back to the living room, his mind spins with possibilities, she’s been taken, she’s been hurt, she’s been killed. His breath comes fast, heaving in and out, as he sees her, like Haley, cold and gone, taken before he had a chance to save her.
Hotch squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his lungs to take longer, deeper breaths, in and out. He doesn’t know what’s happened. She’s gone, but she could still be alive. He doesn’t know what’s happened, but it’s his job to find out. His thoughts more clear, he pulls out his phone and calls the BAU.
They arrive quickly, along with a lab team who start cordoning off the apartment while Hotch gathers the team in the hallway.
“JJ, Reid,” He says, “I want you downstairs with security and maintenance, find out what you can about the power outage, security cameras, witnesses, anything.”
They nod, heading off without another word.
“Morgan and Prentiss, knock on doors, see who’s home and if they saw or heard anything.” He says, before turning to Rossi. “You’re on the scene with me.”
Rossi nods, and Hotch ignores the way his old friend is eyeing him– like Hotch is a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode.
“The lock wasn’t broken.” Hotch begins, “The unsub either had a key or picked the lock.”
“If you’re Y/N,” Rossi says, ducking under the crime scene tape, “You come home like usual, unlock the door, and go inside. Nothing suspicious.”
Hotch follows as Rossi continues inside, taking in the scene– taking in the blood. Hotch clenches his fists, thinking about her, tired and unsuspecting and undeserving, at the mercy of yet more pain.
“Alright,” Rossi exhales, “So the unsub was waiting just past the hallway.”
Rossi moves, standing against the wall, hidden around the corner from anyone coming in from the door.
“It’s dark at night with no power.” Rossi says. “So even if she had a bad feeling, she wouldn’t see him coming. He jumps out, hits her in the back of the head, and she’s down.”
“She’s dragged,” Hotch says, his voice scratching around the lump in his throat, “Back towards the door.”
“Not too badly hurt, though,” Rossi says, “The blood peters out before the door.”
“She’s still hurt, Dave.” Hotch snaps, “She’s still bleeding.”
Rossi just looks at him, eyebrows raised and eyes knowing. Hotch lifts his hand to his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Without power, he would have had to carry her down the stairs instead of the elevator.” Hotch says, “It’s only two flights, but that would still take considerable strength.”
“Aaron,” Rossi’s voice is softer, professional tone replaced by the worry of a friend.
But Hotch can’t stop, his mind whirling and his heart pounding.
“If he was still dragging her, that could cause incredible damage to her body– ribs broken, further head trauma, she could–”
“Hey, hey,” Rossi cuts him off, putting a hand on his arm. “Take a breath, alright?”
Hotch pulls away from Rossi’s grasp, re-focusing on the crime scene. “I’ll take a breath when I know she’s safe.”
~
Nearing midnight, the team files into the conference room, looking stricken and serious. They take their seats, and Hotch feels a sharp pain in his chest at the sight of Y/N’s chair left empty.
Hotch stands in front of the case board. There isn’t much up yet. There’s a copy of Y/N’s Bureau ID photo which he can’t look at without feeling a wave of sickness. There are photos from her apartment, of the blood splatter and abandoned items. There are the names of the rest of the team, her former coworkers from CID, and her parents, each with the word “deceased” underneath.
That’s it. No connections, no leads. Just scattered pieces of information and a gaping hole in his heart.
“Where are we?” He asks, hoping for some kind of breakthrough, some clue, something to hold onto.
“The power outage took down the security cameras in the parking lot and the entrance, but I recovered the footage beforehand,” Garcia says, transferring her computer feed to the monitor. “This individual was caught on the lot camera, heading to the side hatch which has access to the basement– and the electrical breaker.”
A blurry still of a person dressed in baggy black clothes with a hoodie pulled low over their face fills the screen.
“Based on the surroundings, I would put this person at about five foot eight.”
“Shorter man or taller woman.” Morgan says.
“If that is the unsub,” Reid says, “They would have to have impressive muscle mass in order to carry an unconscious woman out of the building.”
“We could be looking at a team,” Prentiss suggests, “This one cut the power, the other one went in to get her.”
“Maybe.” Hotch says, desperate for another lead. “What did the lab say about the scene?”
“The blood…is definitely hers.” Reid swallows thickly, “It came back negative for drugs, so she wasn’t dosed with anything. No other fingerprints were found at the scene. Just hers and a few from Agent Andrews.”
Hotch’s jaw clenches. “What do we have on him?”
“He’s clean.” Morgan says, sounding almost disappointed, “He’s been at a leadership training retreat all week.”
“What else?” Hotch pushes, looking around the table.
“The power went out at four fourty-seven yesterday evening.” JJ says. “The unsub opened up the breaker box and cut the wires.”
“All of them?” Rossi asks.
JJ nods. “Every single one.”
“That’s a bit overkill,” Rossi says. “Could be our unsub doesn’t know much about electrical boards and wanted his bases covered.”
Prentiss speaks up, “Her neighbor, Mrs. Schiff said she heard Y/N come home shortly after the power went out.”
“But I knowshe didn’t leave here until after eleven last night.” Garcia cuts in. “So the one she heard must have been the horrible, awful, no-good, son of a–”
Morgan reaches an arm around Garcia’s shoulders, calming the impending spiral. “The unsub would have stayed, waiting, until she got home.”
“That’s a long time to wait,” Prentiss points out, “It must have been important to get Y/N specifically.”
“Butwhy?” Garcia asks, teary-eyed. “Why would anyone want to hurt our beautiful, sweet, Y/N?”
“To get to one of us.” Hotch says, with little evidence other than the sinking feeling of history repeating itself.
The silence that falls across the table tells him the others feel it too.
A soft electronic ding from Garcia’s laptop breaks the heaviness in the air. She looks down at the screen, pulling up her email.
“Ah!” She squeaks, flapping her hands. “Ahhhhh!”
“What?” Morgan touches her shoulder. “What is it?”
“Creepy freaky email from an unknown sender!” She cries, pulling up the message on the monitor.
“There’s a video.” Garcia says, the fear clear in her voice.
“Open it.” Hotch says.
“Aaron,” Rossi cuts in, “Maybe you should–”
“Play the video.” Hotch orders. He needs to know. No matter how much it hurts. He needs to know.
Garcia opens the attachment.
The video floods the screen, and Hotch feels his heart plummet into his shoes. The camera records a basement, dark and nondescript. Y/N sits in a chair in the center of the frame, her hands tied to the armrests and her ankles lashed to the legs with zip ties. The plastic restraints are so tight he can see them cutting into her skin. She’s gagged with a dirty piece of cloth tied tight around her head. Dried blood is caked down her forehead and splattered on her shirt. She stares toward the camera, eyes wide with terror.
“I get him back,” a voice whispers into the microphone, “You get her back.”
A hand lifts into frame from behind the camera, gun cocked towards her head.
Garcia gasps, and Hotch freezes, his entire body seized with panic and horror.
“He dies,” the voice threatens, “She dies.”
The gun fires, and Hotch’s heart stops for an instant. In the video, however, Y/N keeps breathing, her chest heaving as she hyperventilates through her nose. The empty, dirty wall behind her has a new hole to the right of her head.
“You have twenty-four hours.”
The video goes black.
Hotch stumbles forward, heart pounding and chest squeezing painfully. Bracing his hands against the wooden surface, he drops his head and forces himself to breathe. He closes his eyes, pushing the air in and out, in and out, in and out.
“Hotch?” Reid calls.
Hotch looks up, his vision blurred with unshed tears.
“She’s alive.” JJ says, her voice heavy with emotion, but strong.
“And we’re going to get her back.” Morgan adds.
Hotch straightens, taking another deep breath to calm the residual panic pounding in his pulse. He looks around at the rest of the team, one by one, and nods.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: A sudden case allows you to contemplate your newfound feelings, but Hotch is getting tired of waiting…
(A/N: I’m back! Thank you so much for all your patience while I was finishing out the semester. I didn’t want to wait, but we’re about to start an important arc for this fic and the last thing I wanted was to leave you all on a weeks-long cliffhanger. Anyway, I think I’ve said too much already. Read on and enjoy!)
Knock knock knock.
Someone was at the door. Awareness seeped into Hotch’s mind at the sound. He noticed his surroundings for the first time– a hotel room, the same a slightly different from all the others. He couldn’t remember if this one was Pittsburg or Indianapolis or Nowheresville, USA.
But it didn’t really matter anyway, because someone was at the door.
He stood up and walked to the door, opening it without looking through the peephole because somehow, he already knew who it was.
She stood in the hallway, waiting. She was wearing the same dress as the night of the banquet, wine-colored and perfectly fitted to tease him, keep him wondering and guessing and wanting. She smiled, soft and warm, but when their eyes met, he could see a more intense fire underneath.
“You’re here.” He said, in wonder.
“I’m tired of waiting,” She said. “Aren’t you?”
He exhaled, pent-up intentions thrumming through his body like electricity. “Yes.”
“So do something about it.”
He didn’t wait to be told twice. He surged forward, cradling the back of her head with his right hand while the left curled around her waist, pulling her close as his lips captured hers in an intense and long-awaited kiss.
She practically melted against him, her hands lifting– one to steady herself on his shoulder and the other to card through his hair, sending a tingle of pleasure down his spine.
She parted her lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He did so, happily, eagerly, even. Working on mostly impulse, his mind too overwhelmed by finally having this, of finally having her, Hotch began to move backwards, guiding her into the room.
She kicked the door shut behind them and Hotch immediately pressed her back against it. The kiss broke as she gasped in exhilaration. He felt her smile against his lips.
He wanted everything all at once, to touch her to taste her, to feel her, but he forced himself to take it slow. There would be time for everything. There would be time, because she was finally his and he was finally hers—
Hotch wakes with a start.
The phone is ringing.
He blinks in the darkness, realizing he’s not in Nowheresville, he’s at home in his apartment in D.C., lying in bed. Alone. The phantom sensation of her body disappears and leaves unsatisfied arousal behind.
The phone continues to ring, merciless in its insistence.
He rolls over, reaches for the offending object, and answers through gritted teeth.
“Hotchner.”
“Hey,”Hervoice strikes through him, both a relief and a torment. “I know, I’m the last person you want calling you late on Saturday night.”
“No,” he says, too quickly and too aware of the rough grate of his voice, “No, it’s alright.”
He swallows thickly, and takes a deep breath, trying to calm the thudding of his pulse.
“Still, I’m sorry for waking you.”
Shame burns in his chest. However sorry she is for waking him, he’s ten times more ashamed of what she’d woken him from. If she knew…
He shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Is everything alright?”
“We have a case.”
Of course. Of course, why else would she be calling? He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the blood to flow back into his brain so he could stop being such a fool.
“How bad?”
“Code Pink.” She says.
He knows her organizational system like the back of his hand by now. Pink stands for an active abduction.
“Three girls disappeared from a sleepover earlier tonight in Wingate, Indiana. Both parents were home and sleeping soundly and only realized the children were missing an hour and a half ago.” Her voice, which had remained steady and professional so far, begins to falter. “Hotch…they’re only six years old.”
His blood runs cold. He throws the blanket off, getting out of bed as the familiar urgency of a case sets in.
“I’m on my way.”
“I’ll tell the others.” She says, “Brief on the plane? We don’t want to wait longer than necessary.”
She has no idea how right she is.
~
“Good morning good people,” Garcia says, connecting the video call to the jet, “I hope you’ve got some coffee up there because you’re going to need it.”
She gets a few tired huffs and hums in response from the team, most of whom are only half in view on the screen. You don’t like video briefings as much as normal in-person ones at the round table. Starting off through a screen makes you feel even more removed from the team than usual, and sitting in Garcia’s office listening to their disembodied voices usually makes you feel pretty removed. At least the two of you have each other.
“And with that, I turn you over to my esteemed colleague.” Garcia says, shifting the monitor so the webcam is fully on you.
“Maya Sinclair, Lily Barton, and Kaia Brown gathered for a sleepover at Maya’s house last night. Between approximately nine o’clock last night and one this morning, all three girls went missing. Both of Maya’s parents, Mark and Amy, were home and asleep until Amy woke up and discovered the girls were gone. Initial reports from the scene report no obvious signs of break-in or struggle.”
“So what woke the mother?” Rossi asks.
“Not exactly nothing, but–”
“Mother’s instinct.” JJ supplies, knowingly.
“What do we know about the other parents?” Morgan asks.
“I did an initial background check. The Browns came back clean, but Sarah Barton has a restraining order against Lily’s father, Ian McKay.” You say, “There are several abuse charges and a previous attempted kidnapping when Lily was two.”
Only four years have passed since then, and your stomach clenches at how young these children are, how scaredthey must be, if nothing worse has happened yet…
“That’s where we’ll start.” Hotch says, “Prentiss and I will talk to McKay. JJ, you and Reid will interview the Sinclairs, and I want Rossi and Morgan at the scene.”
Garcia leans her head on your shoulder, popping into frame. “What about the homefront?”
“As much background as you can get. Family, friends, teachers, coaches, extracurricular activities.”
There is one advantage to the video briefing, you think, looking at Hotch through the monitor. Even virtually, without making real eye contact, the deep brown of his gaze makes your chest squeeze.
You nod. “We’re on it.”
“Bonne chance mes amies!” Garcia ends the video call with a click.
The two of you share a look and a quick nod, before turning to your designated monitors and getting to work.
~
“Small towns are like spiderwebs,” Garcia’s voice floats through the speaker of the conference room phone, “Not the sticky part, but more the everything’s connected part.”
Hotch stands in front of the case board, looking at the photos and maps as Garcia and Y/N give their update.
“All three girls had the same kindergarten teacher, Cate Perkins, but she’s away for the weekend at a wedding out of state.” Y/N says.
“Flight records checked, confirmed, signed, sealed, and delivered.” Garcia says.
“All three attend the same music school, but different classes. Maya and Kaia are in ballet, Lily takes violin lessons.” Y/N continues, “All three are also on the same k-2 soccer team, coached by Mark Sinclair. The list goes on, but so far nothing out of the ordinary is popping up. At least not on paper.”
“Keep digging.” Hotch says, wishing he had more specific instructions.
“Statistically, the kidnapper is most likely someone close to the family or families,” Reid says, “So focusing on the middle of that proverbial web is the most likely to yield results. Although spiders rarely catch prey at the center of a web. Geometrically speaking–”
“Reid,” Hotch cuts him off, quietly but firmly. “Focus.”
JJ steps into the conference room, drawing Hotch’s attention from the rapidly assembling case board of photos and maps and pieces of police reports.
“I just did a cognitive interview with Amy Sinclair.” She says, “She woke up to the sound of the front door closing. By the time she got downstairs, she remembers hearing a car pulling away before she realized the girls were gone.”
Hotch nods, taking in the information.
“That narrows down the time window.” Prentiss says.
“About one-thirty this morning.” JJ confirms, and they both look at their watches.
It’s just past five now. In a typical kidnapping, the window for finding the victim is about eight hours. With three girls missing, the window could be longer, but there’s no guarantee.
“We’ll check traffic camera footage in the area,” Y/N says, “See if we can get a plate number.”
“Good.” Hotch says, pride and affection flaring in his chest.
More often than not, he’s glad her responsibilities lie outside of the field. No matter how bad cases get, he knows she’s safe in Garcia’s office, surrounded by comforting knick-knacks and the technical analyst’s positivity.
But sometimes, especially when she reminds him of her initiative and instinct, he wishes she could be there with them– there with him. He wishes he could have her nearby, not as a distraction, but as company. Her presence always helps.
“We’ll be working on our web,” Garcia promises, “TTFN!”
The line clicks off, and Hotch tries to ignore the small twinge of loss in his chest at the loss of contact, even though it’s only over the phone. He doesn’t let himself dwell on the feeling long, though, as a young deputy knocks on the door before stepping inside.
“We’ve got Ian McKay in interrogation room three for you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Hotch says before turning to JJ. “Talk to the other parents, the Browns. Something’s missing here.”
She nods, and heads back out into the precinct, passing the deputy who remains in the doorway. The young man hesitates a moment, mouth opening and closing in uncertainty. Hotch shifts, facing him directly.
“Is there something else?”
“Just—” The deputy straightens up, “You should know McKay’s not in…good condition. That is, he’s— well, he’s not in a fit state—”
“He’s drunk.” Prentiss finishes for him.
“Yes, ma’am.” The deputy says, “We picked him up outside a dive bar two towns over. Bartender vouched he’d been there all night. We explained to him why he was coming in, but I believe he thinks he’s in for public intoxication and urination. He was brought some water and a cup of coffee to sober up, but he’s…resistant.”
Hotch’s fingers fidget for a moment as he thinks. It’s better to question a sober person, but they don’t have time to wait for McKay to pull himself together. His daughter doesn’t have time. Hotch looks at Prentiss, lifting his brows a fraction in a silent question.
She shrugs. “We’ve dealt with worse.”
He nods. If she’s game, then so is he. They follow JJ’s path into the station’s bullpen, heading for the interrogation rooms.
“The usual act?” Prentiss asks. “Bad cop, sexy cop?”
As they stop outside the door, Hotch shakes his head. “Not this time. We don’t have time to play games with this. Bad cop, bad cop.”
Her expression turns serious. She nods, ready. Hotch opens the door, and they go inside.
~
You twist side to side in your rolling desk chair, unconscious of the movement as you’re deep in thought. For the most part, your mind is split along two lines– each battling it out for primacy in your focus.
On the one hand, you’re turning the case over and over in your mind. Garcia’s algorithms and databases are working through traffic camera footage for a clear license plate that might belong to the unsub. You’ve assembled as much of a web of connections as you can, but there’s only so far you can go with the fine print– human nature, human error, and human behavior have to fill in the rest.
So your thoughts keep straying away from the case…and towards a particular individual. It makes you feel silly– like a lovestruck teenager, but you can’t help how often your mind circles back around to Hotch.
You miss him.
Even though just yesterday, or…two days ago, now, considering you’ve been up half the night working the case, the team was out at Rudy’s, capping off the week that feels more like a year with how much has changed.
When this all started, back in the fall, you weren’t sure if you’d ever get Hotch to trust you, let alone like you. You never expected to develop feelings for him.
But you have. And now, you’re not sure how you didn’t see it coming. He’s handsome, intelligent, responsible, a good father, and a good man. He has a calm sort of charm and an underrated sense of humor. He makes you feel safe. You would trust him with your life.
How could you not fall in love? How could your chest not squeeze at the sight of his name flashing on the caller ID?
But you know he’s not calling just to hear your voice. You know your newfound feelings aren’t as important as saving the three missing girls, so you shake yourself back into focus and answer the call, putting it on speaker phone.
“Hey,” You greet.
“Hey,” He says, his tone softer than you’re used to. Normally he doesn’t bother with greetings, he just gets to the point– professional and efficient. He sounds tired.
“What can I do?” You ask, wanting to lift some of the burden.
He clears his throat, and the professional tone returns. “I need a list of women who’ve lost a child recently. Focus on the same age group as Maya, Lily, and Kaia, ages five to eight.”
“You think the unsub is trying to replace a child.” You nod, catching on and typing in the search parameters.
“That’s right.” Hotch confirms.
You scan the results as they come in, gears turning in your mind.
“Nothing in the last fifteen years is coming up for Wingate,” You say, “Although I have an idea…”
You adjust the search, feeling a spark of adrenaline as the results come in.
“I just checked adoption application records and there’s a recent rejection. Cate Perkins wanted to adopt a six-year-old from Yunnan Province, but was deemed unfit two months ago.”
“Cate Perkins is the kindergarten teacher.” Hotch says, and you can picture his brows furrowing in a frown, “She’s out of state.”
“Ah ah ah!” Garcia interjects, rolling up next to you, “But this is where the puzzle pieces fall into place. I just got the results of the car search. A 1998 Honda sedan was clocked by multiple cameras around the Sinclair’s house at the time of the abduction. The registration matches one Mitch Applebom, who, in addition to being an art teacher at Wingate Elementary, just co-signed a lease with Cate Perkins.”
“The girls are a gift.” You guess, “A surprise for when she gets back.”
“Address?” Hotch asks.
“Way ahead of you, head honcho,” Garcia says, “Just sent the info to your phones.”
“Got it. On our way,” Hotch says, adding just before he hangs up: “Good work, you two.”
Garcia grabs your hand, holding it tight as the two of you wait with bated breath until the message comes in from Morgan forty-five minutes later.
All clear. Girls safe and unsub in custody.
Garcia turns to face you, her hand raised for a high five. You slap your palm against hers and she rolls away enough to spin around a few times in victory.
“Look at you!” She cheers, “When did you become a profiler and why didn’t you tell me?”
“We all have secrets, Penelope,” You tease, spinning in your own chair to look at her over your shoulder. “I did want to be a detective for a while. I took some criminology and investigative courses in college.”
She nods, smiling in approval. “Another layer of the Y/N onion is peeled away.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Ew.”
She tilts her head, reconsidering her choice of metaphor. “Yeah, that was kinda gross.”
Exhausted and exhilarated, you burst into a fit of giggles. Garcia joins in, the two of you leaning against each other in a giddy pile.
~
By the time Applebom is in custody, Perkins is on a flight back to Indiana, and Maya, Lily, and Kaia are safely returned to their parents’ arms, almost twenty-four hours have passed since Y/N first called Hotch with news of the case.
The whole team is exhausted. Happy and grateful to see three families reunited, but exhausted. He can see it in the slump of Reid’s shoulders, the young doctor’s messenger bag seeming much heavier than usual. He can feel it in his own body, getting older and harder to withstand these long nights and long days, his bones aching for rest.
He can hear it in Y/N’s voice, pitched deeper and tone tempered as she picks up his phone call. The sound of it, soft and sleepy, sparks longing in his chest. He yearns to be with her, for the liberty of wrapping his arms around her, of falling asleep next to her.
“Loose ends tying up okay over there?” She asks, and he can hear the gentle smile as she says it.
“Yeah,” He confirms, “We’ll be on the jet heading back within the hour.”
“Good,” She yawns, excuses herself, and then continues, “Although I almost wish the flight was longer so you all could get a little sleep.”
“We’ll be fine,” Hotch says, his chest feeling warm and vulnerable, “But you and Garcia can head home. You should sleep, too. No one’s coming in before noon tomorrow.”
“Okay,” She yawns again, “I’ll tell Garcia.”
“I’m not on speaker phone?” His pulse speeds up a notch at the notion of being alone with her, even over the phone.
“No, I’m back at my desk, finishing some paperwork.” She says.
“I see.”
“Why?” She draws out the question sleepily, and his lips quirk upwards at her teasing tone, “Are you keeping more secrets, sir?”
“Perhaps I am,” He says.
“Well,” She says, “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m something of a detective myself. Unofficial, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So I’ll find out your secret eventually.”
“I’m sure you will,” He says, his tone betraying the softness in his chest and the small smile on his lips.
There’s a pause, the silence heavy with unspoken words on both sides. Hotch waits, picturing the look in her eyes two nights ago at the bar and hoping…
“Hotch?” She asks, her voice smaller, more hesitant.
“Yes,” He breathes.
She inhales. Another pause. Hotch holds his breath, afraid that the smallest sound will turn her away.
“No, never mind,” She exhales, “It can wait. You should get to your flight.”
His heart pounds. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Just…nothing.” She says, “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Okay,” He nods, fighting off the sinking disappointment in his chest. “Get some rest.”
“You too.”
“Alright.”
“Okay,” She laughs a little, sheepish and sweet. “Bye.”
“Bye.” He says, and hears the dial tone in response.
He grips his phone in his hand, lost in a swirl of mixed emotions. Her voice from his dream floats into his mind.
I’m tired of waiting, aren’t you?
Yes.
So do something about it.
He shoves his phone into his pocket, gathering the last of his things from the conference room table and heading out of the precinct.
Tomorrow, he thinks. I’m done waiting.
~
The power is out in your building when you get home.
You don’t remember a storm on the radar, but then again you’ve been in Garcia’s windowless office for the last twenty-four hours. You wouldn’t have noticed the weather unless a tornado blew the roof off from over your head. The power outage probably isn’t due to a storm though. Last year, a drunk driver hit a generator on the next block and the whole street lost power for two days.
Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to sleep until the power comes back on.
Either way, you’re too tired to care at this point. Luckily, it only takes two attempts to get the key in the lock and you wiggle the latch successfully. You push the door open with your shoulder and trudge inside.
You’ve lived in your apartment long enough that you don’t need lights to find your way. A combination of your mental map and muscle memory guides you through the front hallway into the more open living space. You just barely register the sudden shift of air behind you before something hits your head, hard.
You don’t feel your body hit the floor, you just perceive the sensation of falling before everything goes black.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: As Friday arrives, you make a discovery.
(A/N: The new chapter a day early?? That’s right!! Today is my 20th birthday and in honor of that, I’m posting one of my most favorite chapters :D That being said, I don’t think I’ll be able to get a new chapter up for at least two weeks because I have to focus on finals and finishing out the semester. In the meantime, I hope you’ll enjoy this chapter!)
On Friday morning, you’re waiting for Hotch as usual. But it’s strange, the bittersweet feeling you have knowing this is the last day of your little colleague carpool. You’ve only had them for a week, but you’ve already started to look forward to those forty-five minute drives. You’ve come to enjoy the time spent with one another, talking and listening to music, and (last night) even holding hands.
Six months ago, if someone had told you you’d be holding hands in the car with Aaron Hotchner— and that you’d actually enjoyit —you would have laughed in their face.
And yet.
You did enjoy it. Probably more than you should have, all things considered. He meant it as a comforting gesture, you’re sure, an indication of understanding as you each shared details of your past. But your chest still squeezed and your stomach fluttered as his large hand closed around yours. Your mind still supplied those intrusive thoughts. What would it be like to have this everyday— to be held by him, to be with him…to kiss him?
You shake the romantic fantasy away, giving yourself a reality check. You just got over your ex, so you must be projecting onto the growing friendship. Sure, you have more in common than you realized, you feel safe with him, and you enjoy spending time with him, but that doesn’t necessarily meananything. You’d probably feel the same way about anyone who showed you the same kindness and attention that he does.
Still, your chest squeezes at the sight of his car arriving. He pulls to a stop and you open the passenger side door, sliding into your seat.
“‘Morning,” you say, managing a smile despite the heavy feeling in your stomach.
“Good morning,” He says, meeting your smile with a soft gaze that makes you wonder if he feels the bittersweetness too. “How was your night?”
“Fine,” you nod as he puts the car in drive again, “Uneventful. I made pasta and sort of half-watched TV. How was yours?”
“Good,” Hotch says, “Jack recently discovered the board game Clue, so we’ve been playing a lot of that.”
You smile, “He really is following in your footsteps.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
“I don’t know,” You say, “I can’t think of anyone better for him to take after.”
He doesn’t respond right away, and in that moment of quiet you realize you might have crossed a line. Glancing nervously at him, you see his fingers flex against the steering wheel and you’re sure you’ve messed up. You open your mouth to apologize and backtrack when he turns his head to glance at you, a surprisingly vulnerable look in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he says softly, and your chest squeezes again.
“Of course,” you nod, “You’re a good father, Hotch.”
He looks back at the road, clearing his throat. “When do you pick up your car?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m sure you’re looking forward to it.”
You hum noncommittally. You know you should be looking forward to it, if not for your own sake then for the sake of getting out of Hotch’s hair, but you’re not.
“Any requests for the DJ today?” You change the subject, connecting your phone to bluetooth.
“I want to hold your hand,” He says.
Your heart rate skyrockets, head snapping to the side to look at him. “What?”
He looks at you, brows furrowing slightly. “The Beatles. ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”
Heart still thumping, embarrassed understanding settles within you as heat rises to your face.
“Oh. Yes, okay. Sorry, I didn’t–I misheard you the first time.” You ramble, setting the song up and pressing play.
The upbeat ‘60s sound fills the car as you force a few quiet breaths in and out, silently berating yourself for jumping to conclusions. Glancing at Hotch again, you’re relieved to find he seems unbothered, gaze fixed calmly on the road ahead. You busy yourself with the playlist for the rest of the drive, picking songs you think he’ll like, but also ones that fit your mood.
Neither of you talk much for the rest of the ride, and you at least find the music is doing most of your talking for you as “I Will,” “Yesterday,” “Falling of the Rain,” “Something,” and “Just the Way You Are,” play in the background. For now, Billy Joel and the Beatles are better at expressing your mix of gratitude and sadness than you are. You hope, as you and Hotch pull into Quantico, that by the time the two of you head home for the evening you’ll be able to properly thank him for this week.
Hotch puts the car in park and turns off the engine. There’s a pause– neither of you move to open your doors for a moment. He inhales, about to speak, and you wait…
But he says nothing, he just exhales.
Then he turns and opens his door to get out. You do the same, trying to ignore your stomach dipping in disappointment.
What did you think? He was about to offer to keep driving you even after your car is fixed? He was about to ask you out?
You shake your head at yourself as you follow him to the building’s entrance, muttering a quiet ‘thank you’ as he holds the door for you.
Don’t be ridiculous.
~
Hotch is stuck. He’s not sure what to do. He’s caught in a liminal space between knowing and not knowing.
He knows how he feels about Y/N. He knows, all too well, that he’s in love with her. Of that he’s certain.
He just doesn’t know how she feels about him. Yes, he knows she likes him, she trusts him, she respects him, but he can’t tell how far beyond the bounds of professional friendship those feelings go. He doesn’t know if he’s reading too much into the smiles and second glances and open vulnerability.
He knows Rossi would tell him to just go for it. He knows he wants to. He knows that despite all the reasons not to, despite his rationalizing, that he wants this. This week has given him a glimpse into what could be, and god does he want it.
He doesn’t know how it will all turn out, though. He can’t know whether it will leave his life a wreck or change everything for the better. Wanting is different from deserving. Could is different from should.
So he’s been stuck all day. He almost said something this morning, before they got out of his car. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say– thank you, you’re wonderful, would you like to drive to work together every day for as long as we both shall live – but in the end he decided not to say anything at all.
Now, he feels like he’s running out of time. This convenient closeness they’ve developed might change after this week, it might disappear completely and turn into the usual routine of professional friendship, nothing more. Unless he says something.
He decides to do it tonight, when he drives her home. He should ask her to get a drink with him. Or maybe that’s sending the wrong message. Maybe asking her to dinner is better. Dinner is more serious, more intentional. Although that could be overwhelming, especially since it’s unlikely her feelings, if they exist at all, are as strong as his. Lunch is safer, more ambiguous– it could be a friendly invitation if he needs to back off and change tactics.
Hotch checks his watch, feeling a rush of emotion, excitement and nerves, apprehension and hope when he sees that it’s past five already.
Now is the time, now is his chance, before it’s too late.
He stands and haphazardly gathers his things, closing and locking his office door. He turns and then stops short, looking down at the rest of the team gathered around Y/N’s desk.
“Oh no,” Garcia frowns, her red lipstick matching her glasses, “Are you leaving?”
Hotch stiffens, feeling a flush of inexplicable embarrassment. He never leaves this early. While he steps slowly down the stairs, Hotch scrambles for a reason that’s not I want time alone with Y/N as soon as possible, Garcia continues:
“We were about to invite you to come to Rudy’s with us.”
Hotch’s embarrassment gives way to a heavy, sinking feeling as he looks at the hopeful expressions on his teammates’ faces before meeting Y/N’s apologetic gaze.
“Miss ma’am here has never been before,” Morgan says, playfully nudging her.
“Which tells you it’s been way too long since we’ve all gone out together.” JJ intones.
“Exactly,” Prentiss agrees.
“Come out with us, Aaron.” Rossi says, eyeing his friend. “You never know what could happen.”
“Actually, based on the last eight years, it’s fairly easy to predict what the night holds for each of you.” Reid says, “Morgan will entertain attention from at least three different women, but—”
“Hey, hey, hey, no spoilers, pretty boy.” Morgan cuts him off, “Come on Hotch, you know it’ll be a good time.”
“Pretty please?” Garcia gives her best puppy dog eyes.
Hotch can’t stop his jaw from tensing at the change of plans for the evening, as a heavy feeling settles in his stomach– the sense of having missed his chance. But then he looks at Y/N, whose gaze is soft, betraying a bittersweet mix of emotion.
She smiles softly. “The team’s not whole without you, sir.”
His chest tightens and he gives in. “Alright.”
Garcia cheers and the others smile, chattering and laughing as the BAU leaves for a night out.
~
This is good.
You tell yourself over and over in an attempt to combat the disappointment sinking your heart like a stone.
This is good, to get out and do something fun. This is good, to spend time with the whole team outside of work. This is good to put yourself out there and potentially meet someone new.
This is all good, except for the fact that you’d rather be in the car with Hotch driving anywhere, talking about anything, for as long as humanly possible.
But you’re not in the car with Hotch. Instead, you’re at Rudy’s, the BAU’s favorite bar. It’s not too crowded yet, and the last rays of sunshine coming through the windows make the happy hour seem more spacious. There’s music playing and an open space for dancing, but most people are just sitting around drinking. On a Friday night, though, you expect the place will fill up before too long.
“Agents! Good to see you!” Rudy, the gray-haired owner cheers as the team walks in, “It’s been too long, but then you’re busy kicking ass and taking names, I suppose. Come in, come in! I’ll get your regular table ready!”
He hurries out from behind the bar, patting the younger bartender on the back as he passes. “Joey, it’s whatever they want, on the house!”
Joey nods, smiling bemusedly as he turns to the team.
“What can I get for you?”
By the time everyone has put in an order, Rudy is back and beaming brighter than ever as he locks eyes with you.
“Is this a new face I see? A new agent?”
“Administrative Liaison,” You smile, extending your hand. “Y/N L/N, it’s nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine!” He shakes your hand enthusiastically, “You must let me add your picture to the wall of fame!”
He gestures behind the bar, and you notice a collection of polaroids taped to the wall. Each member of the BAU is photographed with their name signed beneath in familiar handwriting. You lean over the bar a little to get a better look, grinning in amusement.
“We used to be so young and beautiful,” Rossi deadpans, “What changed?”
You turn to Morgan, who stands on your left, nudging him in the side. “You had hair?”
Garcia snickers and Morgan scoffs, nudging you back. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“And Prentiss had curls,” You look past JJ to your right to nod in approval at the dark-haired profiler.
“It was a good look,” JJ agrees, giving Prentiss a meaningful look.
“And a lot of work.” Prentiss rolls her eyes, but smirks.
“So?” Rudy grabs your attention again, camera held at the ready, “Ready for your close-up?”
“I don’t know…” You look around at the others, feeling a little self-conscious being put up on the same pedestal as the Bureau’s best agents.
Morgan bumps your hip in encouragement and Garcia gives you a big thumbs up. You dare to glance at Hotch behind Morgan’s shoulder, and your chest squeezes to find him already looking at you.
He nods, holding your gaze. “You’re a part of the team.”
“Exactly,” Prentiss agrees.
“Okay,” You relent, laughing sheepishly.
“Excellent!” Rudy cheers, waving you over to an open spot by the wall next to the bar, “Right over here!”
Joey finishes up the team’s drinks as you shuffle an inch left and two inches right at Rudy’s direction. You see the others passing behind Rudy on their way to the BAU table. Only Hotch remains at the bar, his drink in one hand and yours in the other, waiting for you.
Your smile is bright and genuine when the flash goes off and the camera clicks. The film ejects and Rudy shakes the photo until it develops, holding it out for you to see. You nod your approval.
“Wonderful!” He says, pulling a pen from his pocket, “Just need your autograph and then you’re all set!”
You sign your name at the bottom, trying to keep your handwriting neat and clear. Rudy takes the photo back to the bar to hang it up with the others. You follow, coming to stand next to Hotch as he watches Rudy tack the picture up between Garcia and Prentiss.
“I didn’t realize there was a celebrity in the house.”
You turn towards the unfamiliar voice, and a man seated at the bar to your right smiles back.
“Are you an actress?” He asks.
You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “No, definitely not.”
“Okay,” The man tilts his head, looking you up and down in a way that has the smile dropping from your face, “A model, then?”
“No,” You answer, and your tone is colder.
“She works for the FBI.” Hotch says, holding out his hand to the stranger in a gesture that seems more assertive than friendly. “SSA Aaron Hotchner. And you are?”
The man falters momentarily before shaking his hand. “Frank.”
“They’re from the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Rudy explains, grinning, “They catch serial killers for a living, if you can believe it! You know, about fifteen years ago now, they arrested the Virginia Strangler in this very bar!”
As Rudy rambles on, trapping Frank in conversation, Hotch leans closer to you.
“Ready to join the others?” His voice is low against your ear, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.
“Yeah,” You nod quickly, accepting your drink from him as the two of you walk over to join the rest of the team.
The only two seats remaining aren’t next to each other– one between Garcia and JJ and one between Morgan and Reid. Your heart sinks for an instant, but then you shake yourself away from the disappointment.
This is good.
This is the perfect opportunity to test whether your recent reactions to Hotch are truly circumstantial…or something deeper. So you take the seat between Reid and Morgan, tuning into the already dynamic conversation at the table.
You all sit together, talking and laughing and drinking, for a while. Through two more drinks, through the sun setting outside, through more and more patrons filing in to kick off the weekend. You’re passed buzzed and into tipsy by the time a Sex on the Beach is set in front of you.
“I didn’t order this,” You look up at Rudy in confusion.
“Courtesy of the gentleman at the bar,” Rudy winks, “I told him you drink for free, but he insisted. What can you do!”
He throws his hands up in jolly resignation, walking back towards the now-crowded bar. Your eyes follow his path, meeting the unfortunately familiar gaze of Frank. He smirks, lifting his own glass in a toast. You turn quickly back to the table, feeling a spark of anxiety in your chest.
“Someone’s got a not-so-secret admirer,” Morgan chuckles, leaning his shoulder into yours.
You push back, cheeks burning, as you hiss, “Yeah, I know.”
JJ leans past Reid to look at you, brows drawn in concern. “Not ready to get back out there yet?”
“It’s not that. I’m over Jay,” You’re not sure why, but you feel like you have to avoid looking at Hotch sitting straight-backed and stoic beside Garcia, “That guy just…I don’t know, he gives me weird vibes.”
“Then we won’t let him anywhere near you.” JJ says.
“Stick with me, mama,” Morgan says, laying his arm across your shoulders and pulling you against his side in something between a hug and a headlock, “I’ve got you.”
You laugh your thanks, resting your head on Morgan’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away. Only as the physical contact ends do you stop to consider how you felt about being close to him– he was warm and solid, his touch felt safe and protective and you certainly weren’t uncomfortable, but…there wasn’t any squeezing in your chest or swooping of your stomach or strange flutters of impulse.
Weird, you think, but it’s not necessarily conclusive, considering you still feel lingering discomfort over Frank’s unwanted attention.
You look down at the fruity drink and grimace. “Yeah, I’m not drinking this. Does anyone else want it?”
Rossi gestures for you to slide it his way. You hesitate a moment, your eyebrows lifting in tandem with the rest of the table.
“What?” He says, indignant, “I like peach.”
Reid tilts his head in silent agreement, sipping his club soda through a long, thin straw. You shrug, holding your laughter behind a smile before handing off the drink. The whole bar has gotten louder since you arrived; between an increased number of voices and the music turned louder to compete, it sounds more like a D.C. club than a local bar.
Garcia slaps her hand on the table, looking at JJ and Prentiss. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Shots and then dancing?” Prentiss asks.
“You know it, sister.”
“Let’s go!” JJ cheers.
They stand, grabbing your hand and pulling you up with them. You let yourself be dragged along, happy to spend some time dancing your worries away with your friends.
The three of you successfully avoid Frank by approaching the opposite side of the bar, leaving a decent crowd of people between your quartet and his seat. Joey pours your shots and once the alcohol is burning down your throats, you’re off to the dance floor.
Carving out a little spot on the edge of the floor, the four of you dance your way through the end of “Pon de Replay” and all of “Toxic” before someone grabs your hand from behind as “Rock Your Body” begins.
You turn with a mix of surprise and sinking suspicion to find Frank standing far too close, smiling far too smugly.
“Can I have this dance?” He asks, leaning closer.
You yank your hand away, stepping back. “No, thank you. I’m–”
“Come on, gorgeous, just one dance.” He presses, reaching for you again.
At the same moment that Prentiss steps forward to block Frank from touching you, someone else winds their arms around your waist, pulling you back against a strong chest. The embrace appears possessive, but the grip is light and respectful, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
“There you are, beautiful. Ready for our dance?”
The sound of Morgan’s voice calms you instantly, letting you relax into the embrace. You turn your head to look up at him, letting a genuine smile of relief spread across your face. His eyes search yours for silent permission and you nod, playing along by turning and looping your arms over his shoulders.
Morgan moves his hands to your hips, guiding you into a dance. He moves and you do your best to mirror and let him lead, falling quickly into a rhythm with the song. In your periphery, you see Prentiss staring Frank down as Rudy comes over and ushers him towards the door.
Re-focusing on Morgan, you let your body roll, never making contact with him, but close enough to fake it, eyes locked with enough intensity to fool an outsider.
“You good for one song, mama?” Morgan asks, leaning his forehead against yours to be heard over the music, “He should get the right idea by then.”
“Yeah,” You nod, “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Morgan breaks out his charming grin, grabbing your hand and sending you into a quick spin out and back, catching you against his chest, leaving you dizzy and breathless, “I couldn’t pass up a chance to dance with you, now could I?”
“Sweet-talker,” You say, winding your arms around his neck and sinking back into the previous rhythm.
Morgan just winks. You dance, moving together with trust and ease as you settle into the song. Sometimes he’ll mouth the lyrics to you, don’t be so quick to walk away, dance with me, and you’ll smile and sing along, talk to me boy, enjoying the song together.
Throughout it all, though, you feel nothing more than drunk fun. Despite his body practically grinding against yours, despite his charm and attractiveness, despite the kindness he’s showing you, you don’t find yourself thinking about kissing him, you don’t think about what it would be like to actually date him, you don’t wish that this little charade was real.
With another spin out and back, you and Morgan have turned just a few degrees, just enough for you to see Hotch standing along the wall. Your eyes meet for a second, but he looks away.
Still, the barest second of eye contact is enough to make your stomach flutter and your chest squeeze. As Hotch says something to Rossi, who stands beside him, you find yourself wishing that it was Hotch instead of Morgan with his hands on your waist.
In that moment, rational thoughts dampened enough by the alcohol that you can’t steer yourself away from it anymore, you feel the truth settle in your heart and mind.
You’re falling in love with Hotch.
~
Hotch feels like a fool.
He is a fool– he should have taken his chance while he had it. He should have asked her on a date this morning instead of shying away like a nervous child. He should have moved faster, just a few minutes ago, when he saw that creep leaving the bar for the dance floor. Hotch and Morgan saw him get up at the same time, but Hotch had moved to intercept, asking Rudy to have Frank removed from the bar. Meanwhile, Morgan had moved to protect.
Now, Hotch can’t help the burn of jealousy in his chest as he watches them tangled together on the dance floor. They move with ease, fluidity, a chemistry that has anger and longing mixing like poison within him.
He envies Morgan, for more than just his closeness to her. The younger man has a self-assuredness that Hotch can’t match. Hotch isn’t insecure by any means, but he calculates and assesses while Morgan just acts with the assumption of success. He flashes a charming smile and breaks the rules, maneuvers through crowds, and pulls off daring moves.
It’s part of what makes him a valuable team member, but it’s also what makes Hotch feel like he doesn’t stand a chance. Maybe if he’d asked her this morning, maybe if he’d intervened faster, but not now. Not with how Morgan’s hands guide her hips to the rhythm, lips mouthing along: Imma have you naked by the end of this song.
No. Now, he’s a fool who’s missed his chance.
“I can feel the self-recrimination from here.” Rossi says, sidling up beside him, still sipping Y/N’s unwanted cocktail.
“Not now, Dave.” Hotch says, his jaw tight.
“You know that’s not going to happen, right?” Rossi says, gesturing towards the couple on the floor, “It’s fun, but it doesn’t mean anything.”
Hotch’s fingers start to fidget at his sides. On the dance floor, Morgan spins Y/N and catches her, making her smile. The jealousy in Hotch’s chest flares. But then she looks over Morgan’s shoulder and catches his gaze. It’s the same expression she wore this morning, when she waited for him to ask what he couldn’t– all hope and trust and gentle joy. His breath hitches slightly and he can’t hold her gaze, the envy and yearning too overwhelming.
“How can you be sure?” He asks, his voice more desperate than he intended.
“You can see it in their faces. It’s all in the eyes.”
Hotch dares to look back at the dance floor, finding her gaze still on him. Her eyes are bright, despite the clear influence of the alcohol, her expression almost awed, but with more gravity and just a hint of excitement. He holds her gaze, heart thumping and chest tightening.
Morgan says something, drawing her attention. She looks back at her partner, laughing at whatever charming quip he just made. But her eyes dull slightly, her smile genuine but without the reverence of a moment ago. There’s affection, but no attraction.
“See?” Rossi says, and Hotch swallows thickly, “She doesn’t look at him like she looks at you.”
Hotch doesn’t respond. He couldn’t, even if he had something to say. He’s feeling too much– hope and envy and adrenaline and love.
“You should take her home tonight,” Rossi says.
“What?” Hotch snaps more into focus, looking at his old friend, “No.”
“Don’t be such a prude, Aaron.” Rossi rolls his eyes and the song changes. “This isn’t high school. You want to, right?”
“That’s not–” Hotch swallows again, “What I want is irrelevant. She’s drunk. I’m not taking advantage of her.”
Rossi seems unconvinced, but doesn’t push. One the dance floor, Y/N hugs Morgan before they separate, rejoining JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia. Garcia runs her hands over Morgan’s chest before he takes her hand and twirls her, grinning. Y/N sings along loudly with this new song, if you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends, and Hotch smiles gently at the image of her at sixteen, dancing her heart out at a Spice Girls concert.
“Just do me a favor, alright?” Rossi says, “Don’t wait too long. There will always be a reason not to. Someday, you just have to go for it.”
Hotch nods, not totally listening, because she’s looking at him again with that look and he can’t seem to care about anything else.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: Over the course of your week-long carpool, you and Hotch grow closer.
(A/N: Y’all the reactions of glee to Jay’s exit were so fantastic. I love you all. Anywho, there’s a lot going on in this chapter that may come into play later…so pay attention– and as always, enjoy! <3)
Monday
Hotch pulls up outside your building at eight o’clock on the dot.
You’re already waiting outside, not wanting to disrupt his routine any more than the detour inherent in coming to pick you up. You give a little wave as he slows to a stop at the curb, trying to quell the strange flutter of anxiety in your stomach.
It’s odd, this feeling of nervousness.
If you had to guess, you’d say it comes from entering a new dynamic. This carpool situation is professional in that you’re both heading to work, but there’s a level of intimacy involved that changes things– he’s seen you cry, he knows about your mom, he knows that you and Jay are broken up. He knowsyou, more than a typical colleague carpool partner would.
You haven’t been nervous around Hotch like this for a while, not since he finally warmed up to you and accepted you as part of the team. Although those nerves were different– they were all about the job. You were worried that if he didn’t trust you, you wouldn’t be able to help the team. If he didn’t approve of you, you wouldn’t feel fully confident in your abilities.
This time, it’s personal. It’s not about your work, it’s about you. And a small, irrational yet inescapable, part of you is worried he won’t like you.
Sure, he seems to like the you that brings cookies to the office, the you that creates scavenger hunts for his son, the fun, forward-facing, unflappable you. But now he’s had a glimpse of the you that feels like she doesn’t know what she’s doing half the time, the you that misses her mother like a lost limb, the real you, with all her broken and reassembled pieces.
But maybe you’re not giving him enough credit.
Heoffered to drive you this week. Hecame to get you before you could even ask. Heasked you to dance.
You remind yourself of all those kindnesses, all those instances of his deep understanding, all the times his good heart shone through as you step up to the car and open the passenger side door.
“Good morning!” You greet, masking your nerves with cheer.
“Good morning,” He turns his head to look at you, frowning slightly, “You weren’t waiting long, were you?”
“No,” You assure him, “You said eight, and I wanted to be down at eight.”
He presses his lips together, but drops the subject, turning instead to the console between your seats.
“I picked up coffee,” He says, lifting a styrofoam mug from the cupholder.
“Oh,” You take the cup, pleasantly surprised, “Thank you.”
You take a sip as Hotch puts the car in gear, your pleasant surprise increasing as you taste the drink.
“Okay, either you talked to Morgan, or you’re a psychic,” You smile, “Because this is exactly what he brings me every morning. And it’s my favorite.”
Hotch glances at you, the corner of his mouth tilting towards a smirk. “I thought Anderson told you about my mind reading.”
You laugh, always caught off guard by his dry humor. “No, he neglected to mention that.”
You take another sip of coffee and then return the cup to its holder, looking out the window as Hotch merges onto 95. The traffic is fairly heavy, typical for this time of the morning, but you’re glad to be in the passenger seat. Your panic following the accident has gone away, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have some lingering driving anxiety. You make sure to keep your breathing steady, focusing on your trust in Hotch’s capabilities as a driver.
“You can put on music,” Hotch’s voice cuts through your thoughts, his head tilting towards the display screen on the dashboard, “I have bluetooth.”
You lean forward to figure out the system, feeling some car envy as you explore the features on the screen.
You’re under no illusions about the fact that you and Hotch are in different tax brackets. The move to Administrative Liaison came with a significant pay raise, but probably nothing compared to a Unit Chief’s salary, not to mention the savings he probably accrued from his years as a lawyer– one look at his Rolex told you that. Meanwhile, you just finished paying off your student loans, and celebrated by buying a thirty dollar bottle of wine instead of a ten dollar bottle.
“Okay,” you say, successfully connecting your phone, “Any requests?”
“Surprise me.”
Those pesky, irrational worries come back as you do a quick mental inventory of your music taste before you decide.
The drums and guitar of “Get it Right the First Time” fade in as you look out the window again, trying not to pay too much attention to Hotch’s reaction (especially considering how non-reactive he is). You nod along as Virginia passes by outside the car, feeling a small swell of pride when you notice Hotch’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
“Help!” comes next, followed by “I Feel the Earth Move” and “A Hard Day’s Night” before “Half a Mile Away.” “Tell Her About It” is just beginning as you take another sip of your coffee.
“I saw Billy Joel in concert once,” Hotch says. “He played in Seattle in ‘96 when I was with the field office.”
“That must have been wonderful,” You sigh, “I’ve heard he’s amazing live.”
“It was a lot of fun.” Hotch agrees. “Haley surprised me with the tickets for my birthday.”
Hotch offers the memory without sadness, although your chest still twinges with empathy whenever he mentions Haley. Still, you understand the complexity of grief and memory, and how healing it can be to remember the joy more than the sadness.
“The birthday concert is always a good one,” You nod, “My mom took me to see the Spice Girls when I turned sixteen. I just about lost my mind when she told me we were going.”
“As anyone would.”
“But I would love to see Billy Joel live someday.”
“He doesn’t disappoint.”
“Okay, wait, we have to play this one,” You say, picking “The Ballad of Billy the Kid” next, “It’s the perfect adventure song.”
The soaring, exciting composition of the song carries you the rest of the way to Quantico. You and Hotch continue to chat while you get out of the car and walk up to the bullpen, parting ways at your desk. As you sit down to start your day, you find the nervousness of an hour ago has gone completely, replaced by calm positivity for the day to come.
Tuesday
“You should be all set for tomorrow,” Y/N says, “I’ve been talking back and forth with the Warden and his staff and everything seems to be in order. You have access to the interview room with Hawley from eleven to four, and guards will be on-hand the whole time.”
Hotch reaches across his desk to take James Hawley’s case file from her. Opening the cover, he sees the added logistical information has been added to the previously compiled background research on the Virginia-born serial killer who’d terrorized the state in the late nineties.
“Good,” Hotch closes the file again, “Thank you.”
Y/N nods with a smile. “Of course.”
She’s done what she came in to do, but she doesn’t move to leave right away. He knows he shouldn’t even entertain the possibility, but Hotch wonders if she enjoys his company as much as he enjoys hers. He wonders if, despite spending close to an hour together in the car this morning, she wants to stay in his office for a few minutes longer.
“Have you heard from your mechanic yet?” Hotch asks.
“Yeah,” She nods, “I had a voicemail from her when I got home last night. The damage was bad, but not disastrous. She’ll have the car fixed for me by this weekend.”
“That’s a fast turnaround,” Hotch manages to conceal the disappointment sinking like a stone in his stomach– he’d hoped for more time.
“I’m pretty sure Carmina has secret magical car powers.” Y/N grins, “No unlike a certain Bureau psychic I know.”
Hotch summons a stern expression, leaning forward. “Don’t blow my cover.”
She leans forward too, her face serious but he can see a smile threatening to break through.
“I’m assembling quite the collection of your secrets, sir,” her smile begins to grow, “Your penchant for poetry, your coin collection, now your telepathic abilities.”
“You’re right,” He concedes, and then lowers his voice, “You have all my secrets, but I have none of yours. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
For just a second, short enough that he’s sure he imagined it, her gaze drops from his eyes to his lips before holding his gaze again. He’s sure he made it up– just wishful thinking, projecting his own desires onto her.
Hotch is almost glad when Rossi interrupts, clearing his throat from the office doorway.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Rossi says, giving Hotch a smile that can only mean trouble.
“No, no,” Y/N snaps quickly into her usual cheerful professionalism, standing and smoothing out the front of her dress in a nervous gesture. “I should get back to work anyway.”
She sends Hotch a quick smile, not quite meeting his gaze, before passing Rossi in the doorway. He wonders if he made her uncomfortable, and his stomach clenches at the thought. But he doesn’t have much time to worry before Rossi shuts the office door – also a bad sign – and saunters over to sit in the chair Y/N just vacated.
“So what’s the plan tomorrow?” Rossi asks.
Hotch lifts the case file from his desk, holding it out for Rossi. Rossi takes it, leaning back in the chair as he flips through.
“We’ll leave at nine which will give us enough time to make the interview at eleven.” Hotch says, “I don’t anticipate we’ll need the full five hours, so we should be back by five or six.”
“He’ll be restrained this time?” Rossi asks sardonically.
“Yes,” Hotch sighs, “And guards will be present at all times.”
Rossi drops the file back down on the desk. “Who’s driving?”
“I assumed you would want to sleep.” Hotch responds dryly.
“Now that you mention it…” Rossi tilts his head as though the thought had never occurred to him before. “I’ll take the return leg.”
“Alright,” Hotch agrees, and a beat of silence stretches between the two as Rossi smirks and Hotch silently begs him not to say what he clearly wants to say.
“So,” Rossi begins, and Hotch knows there’s no escape, “How’s the carpool going?”
“Dave–”
“What?” Rossi throws his hands up, “You didn’t expect me to just ignore the two of you showing up together in the morning and leaving together at night, did you?”
“Her car is in the shop,” Hotch says, “She needed a ride this week.”
“And her boyfriend just happens to be unavailable?”
“Yes.” Hotch answers coolly, “They broke up.”
Rossi is speechless for a moment in surprise, but then his expression falls into a sly smile that makes Hotch’s stomach twist.
“Is that right?” Rossi speaks slowly.
“I’m just driving her until the car is fixed.” Hotch says, and he thinks about how they teach interrogation at the academy– how lies often sound rehearsed, often with the same words and constructions repeated over and over.
“Uh-huh.” Rossi deadpans, “And after the car is fixed? Are you gonna ask her out?”
Heat floods to Hotch’s face, from the embarrassment of being caught– of his feelings, which he thought were carefully hidden, being known.
“Dave,” He warns.
“Come on, Aaron,” Rossi cajoles, “The tables have turned! Not only do you trust her now, but you’ve got it bad for this girl.”
“She’s a woman, not a girl.”
“Fine, yeah,” Rossi waves him off, “My point still stands.”
“I’m not going to– I can’t.” Hotch says, his stomach twisting to say the words aloud. “It’s not a good idea.”
“Why the hell not?”
Hotch glares at his friend. “You know why.”
“Enlighten me.”
Hotch shifts in his chair, clearing his throat. “We work together, for one.”
“Hasn’t stopped JJ and Emily or– hold it, are Garcia and Morgan an item or not?”
“Don’t ask me.” Hotch shakes his head, getting back to the issue at hand. “And it’s not just that. She just ended a year-long relationship.”
“Exactly. Wait a week or two until she’s over him, and then it’s your chance.”
Hotch frowns. “But there’s our age difference–”
“Just a number.”
“I have a son,” Hotch argues, “And a deceased ex-wife who died because–”
“Hey.” Rossi cuts him off, pointing a warning finger at the younger man. “Don’t you finish that sentence.”
“I have baggage, Dave.” Hotch sighs, “That’s my point. More baggage than she would have to deal with if she dated a lawyer or a lobbyist or someone else.”
“We all have baggage, Aaron,” Rossi says, more serious now, “Y/N included.”
Hotch remembers the silvery tears sliding down her face as she remembered her mother, the tremor of her hands, the look in her eyes of a woman acquainted with loss.
“You know,” Rossi continues, “You say ‘you can’t,’ but out of all those reasons, not a single one was that you don’t want to.”
Hotch is quiet, the fingers on his left hand fidgeting, his middle and forefingers rubbing against his thumb in a circular motion, grappling with Rossi’s words. When the silence continues, Rossi takes a deep inhale and stands.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” He says, “Let me know if anything changes for tomorrow.”
Hotch nods, but he’s already disappearing into his thoughts. He doesn’t even hear the click of the door as Rossi shuts it when he leaves. He thinks for a long time, going back and forth between shouldn’t and should and want and doubt and memory and hope.
By the end of the day, he hasn’t reached a decision, but he doesn’t feel like he has to. At least not yet.
Because for now, he knows she’s waiting for him. He knows he’ll get to spend the next forty-five minutes with her. He knows he can pretend, if only for a little bit, that he can have this.
Hotch packs up his briefcase and pulls on his coat, locking his office door behind him. He descends the steps from the walkway and stops by Y/N’s desk.
She looks up, closing the file she was reading.
“Ready to go?” He asks.
She nods, smiling as she stands and gathers her things. “Ready.”
He can’t help but smile back, a gentle sort of warmth settling in his chest as they walk together, side-by-side through the tall glass doors of the BAU.
Wednesday
The BAU is quiet today. Not that Rossi and Hotch add much noise to the normal bustle of people and rustle of paperwork, but somehow things seem more subdued in their absence. You half-expected it to feel like spring break, with everyone slacking off and goofing around while the parents are gone, but it doesn’t feel like that at all.
Sitting at your desk, sorting through case files and calendars and emails, you find yourself missing them. Well, admittedly, you’re missing one of them a little more than the other.
Lately, you’ve gotten a little attached to Hotch.
He’s long-since proved your first impression of him as distant and impassive wrong, with his unexpected humor and incredible kindness, but hadn’t really considered the two of you friends.
Until now.
Your morning and evening drives have revealed a compatibility you hadn’t realized before. Common interests, good conversation, and an ease of presence that made you feel comfortable and safe.
And occasionally…
No, you shake your head, straying away from the more intrusive thoughts you’ve been having lately. The ones where you’re having a normal, perfectly professional conversation with him and then boom, you’re thinking about what it would be like to kiss him, to be kissed by him, to–
You stop yourself again.
It’s just because you’re not quite used to being single again yet. You’re not hung-up on Jay, exactly, but it is a transition to go from being held and kissed everyday to nothing at all.
And sure, Hotch is attractive with his big hands and tall stature and strong jaw and deep voice, but none of that means anything. It’s just stuff you’ve noticed. It doesn’t mean anything.
You’re relieved, coming out of your swirl of thoughts, to see Garcia approaching your desk towards the end of the day.
“Okay, serious-time,” Garcia levels her pen at you, hopping up on the edge of your desk. “How are you reallydoing?”
“I’m good.” You say, the same answer you’ve given each time she’s asked over the last three days.
She huffs, dropping her arm. “Really?”
“Really, really.” You nod, “I was shaken up the night of the accident, but I’m okay now. Really.”
“And with the whole…” She drops her voice to a whisper, ‘break-up,’ before returning to normal volume. “You’re doing okay?”
“I am.” You answer more slowly, considering the question. “Part of me feels like I shouldn’t be…but I am. I’ve been happy this week.”
“Well, good!” Garcia chirps, pleased, if a little miffed. “I figured you were just hiding how heartbroken you are under all those pretty smiles but I’m glad I was wrong.”
“Me too,” You chuckle, “I thought it would take longer to feel over Jay but I think we were done a long time before we broke up. Saturday was just the last straw in an already existing haystack.”
“You’re mixing idioms,” Reid says as he joins the two of you, handing off his finished consultation, “The last straw and a needle in a haystack.”
“I’m making my own idiom.”
Reid tilts his head, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility. He hums slightly, shrugging.
“Hey Reid,” You ask, “You’ve done interviews like the one Hotch and Rossi are doing today, right?”
He nods.
“Are they normally dangerous?” You ask, “Hotch had me do a lot of background on security measures with the warden.”
“You don’t know the story?” Garcia asks, and then reaches out to smack Reid’s arm, “You didn’t tell her the story?”
“Ow,” Reid whines, leaning away from her and rubbing his arm, “It didn’t seem relevant in our previous conversations.”
“Tell it tell it tell it,” Garcia insists, “It’s like, the quintessential badass FBI story. If I were you I’d tell it to everyone I met.”
“Well I’m certainly intrigued.” You say, leaning back in your chair.
Reid flicks his curls out of his eyes, clearing his throat self-consciously. “Well, um, four years ago Hotch and I drove to Connecticut to conduct a final interview with Chester Hardwick, a prolific serial killer through the seventies and eighties. It’s interesting, actually, his MO evolved from arson to sexual assault and homicide–”
“Skip the icky part,” Garcia cuts in, shuddering, “Tell her the badass part.”
“Okay, um, so we got to the prison and went in for the interview,” Reid continues, “But it was clear from the outset that Hardwick was playing us. He wasn’t interested in having his story studied, he just wanted to relive the murders and get out of twenty-four-hour death watch in solitary for a while. He was taunting Hotch, and Hotch wasn’t taking it, and he decided to end the interview, but the guards had all gone out to monitor the evening yard. So it was just me and Hotch and Hardwick, but Hardwick didn’t have any restraints.”
“Why not?” You ask, your chest tightening with worry at the picture of the two of them locked in a room with the life-long killer.
“Hotch didn’t think we’d need them,” Reid lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, “It was a power-play, but Hardwick didn’t fall for it. Once it was clear no one was coming, the situation escalated. If Hardwick killed two FBI agents, they would have to delay his execution.”
“Oh my God,” You breathe.
“I know,” Garcia whispers, flapping her hands at Reid to go on.
“Hotch was prepared to fight him. He matched Hardwick, even continued to antagonize him, I think in an effort to keep Hardwick from going for me, the admittedly easier target.” Reid grimaces, “But I could tell, from how Hardwick had talked about his mother, that he wanted to know why he’d become what he’d become. So I just started talking. Most of it was complete nonsense, but if you can use enough technical vocabulary and speak with relative confidence on a subject, you can fool pretty much anyone, so it kept Hardwick busy until the guards came back.”
“Badass, right?” Garcia grins, “Brains over brawn, outsmarted by the boygenius, Spencer saves the day!”
Reid blushes, tilting his head in embarrassment, “I just talked a lot. I do that even in non-life-and-death situations.”
You shake your head, awed, “Don’t minimize– that’s really impressive.”
“Right? Hence he should be shouting it from the rooftops whenever possible.” Garcia says.
“Are all interviews that dangerous?” You ask, thinking about Hotch and Rossi miles away in a room with James Hawley.
“The unsubs are always dangerous, but the interviews depend upon the level of security. If you arranged for safety measures, Hotch and Rossi should be fine. They’re interviewing James Hawley, the Potomac Maniac, right?”
“Right,” You nod, chewing nervously on your bottom lip.
“Interesting,” Reid muses, “Hawley’s methods depended on his strength, his victims were exclusively white males in their mid-forties, surrogates for his abusive father. He relied on his stature and musculature to overtake them and beat them to death, asserting the control and power he lacked as a child. It’s possible, provided he’s maintained his physique in prison, that he could break the standard handcuffs used in an interrogation room, which are less robust than other prison-grade restraints. Breaking handcuffs like that would require an intense adrenaline rush which could, in turn, empower him to overtake others in the room. Guards are usually strong and well-trained, so he’d go for Hotch or Rossi first, more likely Rossi, given his age and less imposing physicality, but I imagine he could inflict damage on both before being subdued.”
A beat of silence passes as Reid finishes, oblivious to your horrified expression. Garcia smacks him on the arm again, causing him to recoil.
“What?” He squeaks.
She doesn’t answer, turning to you instead, “I’m sure they’re fine, darling. They’ve been doing this forever. And brain over brawn, remember? Between Hotch and Rossi they’ve got more than enough smarts to go around.”
“Right,” You exhale, trying to calm the worry tying knots in your stomach, “You’re right. They’re fine, right?”
Garcia nudges Reid, and he nods quickly, pressing his lips together in an unconvincing, but well-meaning smile.
On your desk, your phone begins to ring, buzzing on the table. You flip it over to see Hotch’s name on the caller ID. You pick up immediately, pressing the phone to your ear. Garcia tugs Reid away, both of them returning to their work.
“Hi,” You breathe, “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
You can hear him falter slightly, inhaling in surprise.
“Yes, I’m fine,” He answers evenly. “I was just calling to tell you we’re on our way back. Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yeah,” You say, your face heating up as your worry melts into embarrassment, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure? If you need–”
“Really, I’m fine,” You laugh, “Garcia and Reid were just…we were talking about when you interviewed Chester Hardwick and I just, I was just a little worried, but it’s fine. Anyway. Are you already on the road?”
“Yes,” Hotch confirms, and you’re grateful he doesn’t push the issue, “We’ll be back by six. If that’s too late, I’m sure Garcia could drive you or I’ll pay for you to take a taxi.”
“No, no need,” You shake your head, “I’ll just wait for you, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” He says, his tone even as ever but you could swear you hear an added warmth.
You picture him with one of those small, almost-imperceptible smiles of his, and your chest warms with pride at the thought.
“Okay,” You can’t help but smile, too. “Okay, great. Well, I’ll see you soon, then.”
“See you soon.” He agrees.
“Drive safe.” You add.
Again, you hear the smile in his voice as he promises, “I will.”
Thursday
“Can I ask you a question?”
Hotch glances at Y/N as he pulls out of the parking lot at Quantico, her profile backlit by the sun setting beyond the sprawling complex. She’s haloed in golden light, and he forces his eyes back to the road before his distraction puts her at risk.
“Of course,” He agrees.
“Why did you join the Bureau?” She asks, “I know you were a lawyer before. Why switch to law enforcement?”
“I was a criminal prosecutor for five years.” Hotch says, “I saw a lot of pain and I always felt like I was too late. I was serving justice, but for damage that had already been done. By moving to the Bureau, I felt like I could stop people before they hurt anyone else.”
Y/N hums, thoughtful and appreciative.
“That’s a good reason.” She says, and then laughs lightly, “A really good reason, considering you definitely weren’t getting a pay raise.”
He huffs out a half-laugh, shaking his head. “No, I was not.”
“But your heart’s in it, I know,” She says, with such sincerity that he believes her– that she knows, “And that’s what matters.”
A beat of quiet passes, only the sound of “Blackbird” playing softly from the car speakers to fill the air. Hotch holds the words in his chest for a moment, caught between wanting and knowing he shouldn’t, that all this closeness they’ve developed is dangerous. But still, he speaks.
“Why take the BAU job?” He asks, “Most people work their whole careers to get to the Hoover Building, not that many want to leave once they get there.”
“There’s a lot of buzz about the BAU downtown.” She says, and Hotch raises his eyebrows, “I knew you did the kind of work I joined CID to help with– the work you wanted to do, too. Stopping people before they hurt others, helping people before they know they need it.”
She pauses, and Hotch senses there’s something more beneath the surface, something deeper. He waits, listening, as she takes a breath.
“You know my dad died when I was little.”
He nods.
“My mom had taken me to a playdate at the park with other kids when I was five. I remember that day, it was one of those gorgeous spring days, just perfect– flowers blooming and breeze blowing and birds singing and everything.” She takes another, deeper breath. “But anyway. Um, while we were gone, this guy – Herman Gondel – decided to rob the house.”
Hotch’s stomach twists in understanding.
“But, um, my dad came home early from work that day,” Y/N says, “His last meeting was canceled and he came home an hour earlier than usual. And he caught Gondel in the act, with my mom’s jewelry in his hands and Gondel panicked and– and so he grabbed this big heavy trophy of my dad’s, an award for swimming in college, and he– he killed him.”
Her voice is heavy with sadness, but remains steady. This is a loss that hurts, but one she’s fully processed, one that doesn’t devastate over and over, like the memory of her mother. Hotch’s grip tightens on the steering wheel just as his chest tightens around his heart, aching for the pain she’s faced– none of it deserved.
“I knew, I always knew, that I wanted to keep what happened to us from happening to other people.” She says, determination overtaking the sadness in her tone. “I wanted to be a detective at first, I was on the criminology and investigative track, but after my first shadow day with an officer, I knew I couldn’t stomach it. Seeing crime scene pictures is one thing, but actually being there, seeing the blood and the body…it just took me back to that day and I couldn’t handle it.”
The pieces click in Hotch’s brain. It makes sense now, her clear aptitude for investigative work– her keen observation skills, her understanding of people, her connection with the team and their work. She would have made an amazing detective, an amazing agent, too. But then, he was pretty sure she’d be amazing at whatever she put her mind to.
“So I switched to support staff, still in the field but more my speed.” She says, “And…the rest is history.”
He glances at her, seeing her hands fidgeting in her lap, her lip caught between her teeth. She’s nervous, he realizes, probably worried she’s shared too much of herself, bared too much of the cracked and repaired parts of her soul. He wants her to know how much it means that she trusts him to see her, to knowher this way.
“Thank you for telling me.” He says, turning his head towards her for an instant so he can meet her gaze and show his sincerity. “And thank you for deciding to take the job. I’m glad you did.”
When her lips lift in a faint smile, he turns back to the road.
“I’m glad too,” she says.
In the moment of quiet that follows, Hotch makes a decision. He decides that if she trusts him to know her, then he should trust her to know him– cracked and broken pieces included.
“I almost left the BAU.” He says, “After Haley died, I wasn’t sure I could keep doing the job. My son needed me more than ever, but it was more than that. I was worried, for a while, that I would see her in every case. That I would feel how it felt to hold her body, every time we were too late. I was scared that my grief and my guilt would haunt me forever.”
Hotch lets the confession free, feeling a weight lift as he says the words he’s never told anyone before.
“There are cases that remind me of her, cases that are harder because of what happened,” he says, “But I came back to the BAU because I knew that I couldn’t let it happen to anyone else.”
Hotch feels a strange rush of relief, coupled by warmth when he glances at her to find her smiling softly.
“Thank you for telling me,” she echoes, “And I’m glad you decided to come back.”
“Me too.”
He knows he shouldn’t, but in the moment it feels right– Hotch lifts his right hand from the steering wheel, reaching over to take her hand in his. Their palms press together, fingers intertwining and resting on her thigh. She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. The two of them drive through the golden light together.
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
